


This Swirling Storm Inside

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band), Zayn Malik (Musician)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Frozen (2013) Fusion, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst, Childhood Friends, Coming Out, Frozen AU, Gender Dysphoria, M/M, Pining, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Transgender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-11-06 17:23:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 46,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11040792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: When Zayn is four years old, he wonders if he might grow up to look like his father. He sits on Yaser’s lap, his father smiling down at him as Zayn reaches up to touch the prickly hairs on his chin. Zayn wonders if his face will feel like that when he grows up: skin rough, the dark stubble coarse on his angled jaw. He wonders if he’ll be tall, if he’ll have the same deep voice and booming laugh. He wonders if he, too, will be the King.“Queen,” his mother corrects. “You’ll be the Queen, Zanirah.”-AFrozenAU in which Zayn is the heir to the kingdom of Arendelle. He's also trans, and his lifelong dysphoria is finally reaching a breaking point.





	This Swirling Storm Inside

**Author's Note:**

> The absolutely stunning pieces of artwork in this fic were done by [luzcoziam](http://luzcoziam.tumblr.com). They're embedded in the fic and also [here](http://luzcoziam.tumblr.com/post/161410550761/this-swirling-storm-inside-written-for-the). Also, a huge thank you to [sunshineflying](http://sunshineflying.tumblr.com) for being a very helpful and patient beta. 
> 
> This story is fiction and leans toward fantasy, and it has nothing to do with the actual humans related to One Direction. It also does not intend to represent the experiences of any or all trans people; it's only the story of this particular fictional, fairy-tale trans person. 
> 
> To be clear, the Zayn in this fic was **assigned female at birth** and raised as a girl and a princess, with the name Zanirah. Zayn is coming into his identity as a trans **man (or boy)** , which is why he/him pronouns and his name Zayn are used throughout.
> 
> As a warning, this fic contains pretty heavy gender dysphoria mentions. It also has some discussion of offscreen/non-major character death (the same as the movie).

 

 

 ❄   _4_  ❄

When Zayn is four years old, he wonders if he might grow up to look like his father. He sits on Yaser’s lap, his father smiling down at him as Zayn reaches up to touch the prickly hairs on his chin. Zayn wonders if his face will feel like that when he grows up: skin rough, the dark stubble coarse on his angled jaw. He wonders if he’ll be tall, if he’ll have the same deep voice and booming laugh. He wonders if he, too, will be the King.

“Queen,” his mother corrects, tucking a lock of hair around his ear. He shakes it loose. “You’ll be the Queen, Zanirah.”

 _Queen._ Zayn puzzles over that for a time. His mother is the Queen, and she has long hair, milky smooth skin, a quiet smile and a shrewd glare. She wears sequined dresses and floor-length fur coats and tall shoes with sparkles. Zayn doesn’t mind the sparkles, but he prefers his father’s fuzzy sheepskins and crisp pinstripe trousers, the jackets with broad shoulders and the snap buttons, the little ties he wears around his neck when someone important comes to the castle. He likes the way he smells.

He always trails his father around the castle from room to room as he goes about his business writing letters, and greeting guests, entering locked doors to have important conversations with important people.

“Daddy’s girl,” the staff always coo after him. Zayn puzzles over that, too. His little brother, Harry, always follows them around, too; he’s always toddling behind them down the corridors on stubby legs that send him toppling over every few steps. No one calls _him_ a daddy’s girl. Equally perplexing, no one rushes over to help _him_ up when he falls, the way they do Zayn, as if he’s so delicate and small when he’s a whole _two years_ older than Harry.

He doesn’t give it much thought. The confusion is fleeting in his day-to-day life. For the most part, his four-year-old mind absorbs the world around him passively; he doesn’t have the time or tenacity to try to figure these things out. He has important things to learn, to explore, to play. He does what he wants, and what the Nannies tell him to do, mostly free to scamper through the castle with his brother.

Zayn grabs Harry’s hand and runs, leads him toddling down the long hallways; together, they weave through the corridors imagining the stern busts and dark framed portraits lining the walls are real people. The house echoes with their shrieked laughter as they swoop into an empty bedroom to hide. They lean against the doorframe and each other and slowly peek out again. They giggle, safe in the knowledge that the stony glares of their forefathers can never reach them here.

 

❄ _19_ ❄

Zayn is going to be sick.

He startles awake the morning after Yule with the taste of cotton in his mouth and a headache pounding through his ears. He cautiously squints open one eye. The white light from his window blazes across the room and directly into his brain. His headache amplifies, and he squeezes both eyes shut again and yanks the duvet up over his face for good measure. He floats still for a moment in the unwelcome sensations of being awake, the turning of his stomach and the pulse thumping through his head.

He hates waking up. He always has, ever since he was a child: aching to return to those sweet moments before consciousness when everything is clear and simple and free from responsibilities, dreading the instant when reality comes crashing down again.

Of course, it doesn’t particularly help that drank nearly a whole cabinet of wine last night.

He takes a few deep breaths as he allows his mind to slowly resettle back into the present.  He’s in his bedroom, the morning after the Yule celebration. Last night, he’d brought a few bottles of wine down to the garden, where -

His eyes shoot open again as the first wave of memory passes over him. _Shit_ , he got drunk with Liam last night.

He _kissed_ Liam last night.

It was the last night of Yule celebration, so everyone who lives in the castle was out at one party or another; even the staff had the night free. Zayn didn’t have any particular plans - he never does - so he sneaked into the wine cabinet that no one ever uses, swiped a few bottles and set out to his favorite hiding place in the back courtyard. The air outside was barely above freezing, the shrubberies still shrouded in beads of ice, but he’d changed into thick trousers and a jacket to keep warm, a knit hat in place over his head as he sat beneath the balcony and waited.

Somehow, he’d known that Liam would find him there.  It’s been their spot since they were kids, and meeting here is their thing. He could imagine Liam slipping out of some party nearby to head toward the castle, unnoticed.

Sure enough, after only a few minutes (and a bottle of red wine), Zayn had heard the gate rattle, and Liam had appeared. Zayn remembers seeing his silhouette perched on top of the gate that both of them can so effortlessly scale after so much practice. He remembers feeling pleased that Liam came to see him so soon, warmth rumbling in his stomach when Liam hopped down onto the snow with a soft thud.

Zayn’s memory starts getting blurry after that. He remembers laughter and easy conversation, warmth in spite of the cold winter air. The must have talked and drank for hours, like they usually do. Zayn must have started flirting.

He still has no idea how this started, how his longtime crush managed to impossibly worm its way through all of the walls he keeps around that part of himself. He doesn’t know how it got to this point. He doesn’t remember anything, really, except for that moment of fire, as clear and bright as the crystals hanging from the chandelier in the ballroom: the swooping in his stomach as he leaned forward, the press of Liam’s lips, soft and wine-sweet, grinning against his lips -

God, what was he _thinking_ , kissing someone like that, so recklessly? Liam doesn’t even know who Zayn – who _Zanirah_ – is.

Zayn rolls over in bed, muffling his face into his pillow. Falling for anyone who isn’t a pompous royal heir is simply unacceptable in Zayn’s life. And falling for someone who doesn’t even know him, who thinks he’s just a servant, whom he’s only ever met while sneaking out in _disguise_? That’s absolutely pathetic.

Whatever. He won’t see him again, anyway. Liam stays far away from town for most of the year. And besides, Zayn’s coronation is three weeks away. After that, he’ll be the monarch, the Queen, and he certainly won’t have the time to sneak out of the castle and cavort with the townspeople and make bad decisions. They’ll never see each other again. He’ll move on.

It was a good kiss, though. Thinking about it still sends a spark through Zayn’s body. It was warm and soft, comfortable and a bit giggly - just like Liam himself, really. Zayn doesn’t think he’ll ever feel that way again.

Zayn groans and presses his palms against his temples in a futile attempt to cleanse his mind. And that’s when he realizes it.

Something doesn’t feel right. His fringe doesn’t feel right. His _hair._

 _Shit._ He shoots up in bed, heart suddenly racing. Shit, they were opening a new bottle of wine last night with his little penknife, and he swears he has a hazy memory of –

No. He couldn’t have. There’s no way. There’s absolutely no way that he could be correct in his sudden recollection of turning his back to Liam and scooting back on the ground, of Liam gently grabbing hold of the ends of his long hair before taking the knife and slicing through it in one clean _snick._

Maybe it was a dream. A dream induced by his intoxication, which can’t possibly true, despite its increasing vividness.

He slowly reaches his hand back, terrified. His fingers press against bare neck.

He’s going to be sick. He stands and shoves on his robe and the beanie he was wearing last night. He creaks open the door and tiptoes down the hallway toward the washroom as quickly as he can.

“Zee – “ Harry emerges from his room at the end of the hallway. He’s still in his own nightclothes, and the red rims around his eyes tell Zayn that he probably stayed up all night with the other kids in the castle, but he’s as irritatingly energetic as always when he lopes from the end of the hallway. “Hey - ”

Zayn ignores him. He steps into the bathroom and slams the door shut behind him.

He takes a breath, looks into the little silver mirror. He generally avoids looking into mirrors as much as possible, but this is too important. He takes a breath, winces and yanks off the beanie. He gasps audibly at what he sees.

His hair is _gone._

The hair he’s grown long for his whole life, just like his mother’s, the hair that has never been shorter than the small of his back as far as he can remember – it’s gone. Instead, It’s cut off in one long slice down beside his ears, choppily hacked all over, poking out in jagged tufts from the top of his head and shooting in all different directions.

He turns his head in the mirror. In a strange way, it actually doesn’t look _that_ bad. He’s always hated being forced to keep his hair so long and straight down his back. This looks a little bit more like _him_ , even though it's quite uneven in places. With some help, it could probably look alright, objectively speaking. If only the circumstances were different. If only he were someone else.

He inhales sharply. _Fuck._ His coronation is less than a month away. The Coronation of Zayn as the new _Queen_ of Arendelle takes place in less than one month, and his hair is gone.

Zayn racks his brain, eyes widening in the mirror. He can’t go out and present himself like this. He'll have to lie, and postpone the coronation. Could he fake ill for long enough? Or maybe he could just fake his own death. He could run away and live in some far away land where nobody knows who he is.

He shakes those thoughts away. He’s been training in crisis management since the age of six, after all. He can think of another solution. He could wear a hat to his own Coronation - but no, that wouldn’t work; he’ll need to receive the crown. Or a wig, or – hair extensions? He twists his mouth, biting his lip. That one might actually work.

He needs to talk to Caroline _now._ He grabs his beanie and slides it back over his ears. Then he opens the door.

“Zee!” Harry’s excited voice startles Zayn, and he nearly jumps in the doorframe. “I wanted to ask - “

“Not now,” Zayn grits out, shaking his head. He hardly sees the blur of Harry’s frown as he pushes past him to run down the hallway toward the downstairs.

His stylist is, understandably, furious.

“What did you do?” Caroline gasps, winding her fingers over his head and pulling on the tufts of hair.

Zayn is still too hungover and embarrassed to think up a suitable excuse for his stylist. So much for being a diplomat. “I guess I cut it off.” He winces.

“I can see that,” she snorts. “With a bloody hacksaw?”

“I don't know.” He bites his lip.  “A pocketknife, I think? I, uh. Might not remember much about what happened last night.”

Caroline’s mouth curves up in a smirk. “You naughty thing!” She wags a finger at him through the mirror, her face widening into a conspiratorial grin.

This is why he loves Caroline the best. Most of the castle staff have always treated him distantly, like a child, like someone they don’t understand – like a spoiled little girl. It’s not their fault; Zayn would probably do the same in their position. Caroline, though, has always treated him like a normal person.

Which is probably why she feels so comfortable yelling at him at the present moment. “What were you thinking?” she reprimands, shaking her head as she pinches bits of his hair through her fingers and takes a few snips here and there. “Are you mad? Your Coronation ball is in three weeks. _Three_ , Z, and the bloody Princess looks like a – like a man.”

Something sharp careens though his chest. “I know,” he mumbles, eyes set on the corner of the room. He must sound especially pitiful, because she pauses and looks at him in the mirror.

“Even if this cut does suit you,” she adds, flashing a little wink. She rakes the top of his hair to the side with her fingers so that it sweeps over his head.

Zayn can’t help his little smile in response. “You think so? I thought it didn’t look so bad, maybe.”

“Yeah,” she gives his shoulder a squeeze. “It’s stylish on you. Brings out your cheekbones. But then, anything’d look good on you, wouldn’t it?” He snorts, and she chuckles. But then she looks back down and her face clouds over again. She shakes her head. “But it won’t do; you know that. Your grandmother would have me murdered if you went out like this. _Murdered._ ”  

“I, um. Was thinking maybe extensions would work?” Zayn suggests meekly, ducking his head.

Caroline bites her lip. “Yeah, might work,” she hums. “And in a few weeks you'll have a bit more hair, so everything’ll blend in a bit better.” She looks him in the face in the mirror and raises her eyebrows. “You might get away with this one yet.”

She rummages through her cabinets and compares a few different clips of long, dark hair against his head before she finally settles on one. “We can put in an order for another couple of sets of this one,” she hums. “For now, I think these will do. If anyone asks, you can say you’ve got a lighter cut in anticipation of Spring. You’re the one that sets the trends, after all.”

Zayn snorts.

“You are!”  She punches him lightly in the shoulder and spins him around before getting to work.

He doesn’t know exactly what she’s doing; he’s never understood how she can do all of these things so effortlessly, and her work might as well be magic as far as he knows. He can feel her separating out what’s left of his hair, tugging at it in a strange way with the comb before clipping the new pieces close to the roots. It hurts, of course, a sharp pain shooting through his scalp every time she does it, but he bites his tongue as she continues round his head. Then, she must be finished, because she goes around again snipping off more bits of hair.

“There,” she declares, and she spins his chair back around.  “What do you think?”

He looks – well, he looks just about the same as always. He turns his head in the mirror. It’s a bit shorter than it was yesterday, just reaching past his shoulders, but he’s not recognizably different.

His head still feels uncomfortable, the clips itchy and heavy on his head, but he knows he may as well get used to it; he’ll have to wear them whenever he’s out of his room. There’s no other option.

Caroline tells him as much. “You’ll have to come in a bit early every morning so we can make sure they’re staying in right, okay? We can’t have your hair falling off.” She laughs.

“Yeah, okay. “ He forces a grin before standing up.  “Thanks, Caroline,” he says, swiping at the errant black strands on his neck. “And. Sorry.”

“Hey.” She intercepts him to pull him into a hug. “Don’t be. My job would be boring if I didn’t have you to wrangle.” She grins and squeezes his shoulder. “And you look good, yeah? Nothing could ever look bad on you, to be honest. You’re like a dream client.” He’s pretty sure she didn’t think so when she started twelve years ago and had to spend every session refereeing arguments between him and his mother, but he doesn’t say so. She gives his shoulders another squeeze.  “It’ll be okay, yeah?”

Zayn swallows. “Right.” He thanks her again before heading back out, long hair swishing in his face.

He should feel better. He should feel like everything has been realigned. Back to normal; disaster averted.

Instead, he somehow feels twenty kilograms more weight on his shoulders than when he walked this staircase an hour ago.

He catches Harry on the way back to his room at the top of the stairs. “Oh, hey,” he waves, remembering how Harry was trying to get his attention this morning.

“Hi,” Harry answers, but his face is stone. What has him in such a mood?

“Didn’t you want to tell me something?”

“It’s nothing,” Harry replies shortly. “It’s been taken care of.”

“Okay.” Zayn takes one step back.

Harry turns away and stalks back toward his room.

Zayn wishes he could say more. He wishes that he could have the same easy friendship with his brother that they had when they were kids. But they’re not children anymore. Zayn can’t do it; he can’t even pretend to have the physical and mental energy to maintain something like a real friendship.

And if he tries, someone always ends up getting hurt.

 

❄ _7_ ❄

“C’mon, Z,” Harry whines from where he’s knelt beside Zayn on the bed. His knees jut into Zayn’s side through the bedspread. “Let’s _play_.”

“Go back to sleep,” Zayn grumbles, voice muffled into his pillow. Harry doesn’t move.

“I _can’t_ ,” Harry says dramatically. Zayn doesn’t respond, and Harry climbs on top of him, his small five-year-old weight perched upon the center of Zayn’s back. “I wanna play!”

“I’m _sleeping_.”

“You’re not sleeping,” Harry declares skeptically. He pokes at Zayn’s cheek with a stubby finger.

“Stop it!” Zayn grunts.

Harry sits silent for a moment, his weight heavy on Zayn’s back. The next time he speaks, he’s whispering close enough to Zayn’s ear that his breath tickles at his hair. “Do you wanna build a snowman?“

Zayn peeks open his left eye. The grogginess in his brain is already reluctantly dissipating, and they _did_ get some fresh snow today. He saw it out the window when he was getting fitted for his new dress.

Zayn wriggles sideways and turns over, Harry flopping off of his back and onto the bed beside him. When Zayn’s eyes finally adjust, Harry is crouched grinning wide above him, his tongue poking out in the gap where his front tooth is missing.

“Okay,” Zayn relents, smile tugging at his lips despite himself as he sits up and rubs the short-lived sleep from his eyes.

They have the process perfected. Zayn leads as they tiptoe barefoot across their hallway and down the first set of stairs, deftly avoiding the squeaky steps. The plush carpeting hides the sounds of their footsteps so that they won’t awaken their parents or any of the staff as they creep down the corridor. They stop at the hall closet and carefully creak it open to grab their supplies: coats, hats and boots for themselves and a bag of dress-up clothes for the snowman-making. Then, they pad downstairs to the library that opens out onto the terrace.

Harry is bouncing with anticipation by the time Zayn slowly creaks open the terrace door. But when they finally step outside, they find that only a few tiny mounds of half-melted snow remain. Zayn frowns and pokes his toe at the slush.  

“It melted,” Harry complains. He stoops down and tries to build up a tiny pile, but it’s no use; the snow is too wet to hold. Harry stares forlornly down at the sad lump, his lower lip beginning to jut outwards and quiver.

Zayn thinks quickly. He digs through their bag of clothes and places a black top hat on his own head. “Hey, Harry,” he calls. “Look at me! We should play dress-up instead!”

Harry’s eyes widen. “But mama said – “

“Mama also said we’re not allowed to play in the terrace at midnight,” Zayn points out. “ _I_ say we can do whatever we want.”

A grin returns to Harry’s face. He scampers toward Zayn. “Okay!”

They close the door and settle back in the warmth of the library. They shove their coats and boots off into the corner before dumping out the contents of their dress-up bag onto the floor. Harry selects a red tunic, which billows as he shuffles into it. Zayn giggles. It’s so oversized that it flops past his arms, and Zayn helps him roll up the sleeves until his hands can wriggle free. Hands free, Harry grabs a fancy feather headpiece and Zayn helps him place it in his curls.

Zayn keeps his tall black hat, and he shuffles through the oversized clothing and makes his own selections: a light blue waistcoat, a cravat, floppy long trousers that he hikes up over his nightdress.

“Look, now I’m the prince.” Zayn puffs his belly out proudly. He likes the weight of the hat, the squeeze of the waistcoat and the warmth of the cravat around his neck, even though he doesn’t know how to tie it. He feels like his dad.

Harry looks up from where he’s been tying a giant ribbon around his stomach. He breaks out into a grin. “I’m the princess, then!” he says gleefully. He slides a pair of square-toed women’s slippers onto his feet and curtsies before placing a tiara on his head on top of the feathery headdress. He takes a few wobbly steps, and neither of them can contain their laughter when they finally peer at themselves in the desk mirror.

Zayn’s eyes settle on the quill on the desk, and he gets a better idea. Harry’s gaze follows, and he breaks out into a wide grin.

They take turns drawing on their faces. On Harry’s insistence, Zayn draws a single big, bushy eyebrow high on Harry’s forehead. Both of them plot tiny dots all over their chins, and Zayn pens a lopsided mustache on his upper lip. Then they sift through the jewelry, and both cover themselves in silver chains that loop halfway down their bodies. They crowd into the mirror again, laughing.

“You look proper good,” Harry giggles, and Zayn grins triumphantly. They both look incomparably silly, of course, but Zayn kind of likes the way he looks.

Zayn feels suddenly strange. He looks different, and he feels altogether different, too, especially from the way he feels when they dress him up in a frilly gown and parade him around at balls. There’s something peculiarly familiar about this. It’s like the buzzing calms down when he sees himself. That’s what it is: he _sees_ himself in the mirror – a dressed-up version, sure, a silly version, but it’s him.

The thought is fleeting when Harry is standing beside him making faces in the mirror and giggling. Zayn pokes him in the stomach, and they fall to the floor with a soft thud and more laughter.

“When we grow up,” Harry says, once the laughter subsides and he catches his breath, “we can do whatever we want, right?”

“Yep.” Zayn turns over and rests his cheek on his hand to look at his brother.

“And we’ll always be best friends?” Harry presses.

“Always.”

“Even when you’re the Queen?”

“Especially then. You’ll be the Prince,” Zayn says with confidence. “You’ll be my right-hand man.”

“Right-hand man,” Harry repeats with a grin, wiggling the fingers on his right hand. Then, he frowns. “Alfie Blom says that you’ll forget about me when you’re the Queen.”

“I’ve told you,” Zayn rolls his eyes, “Alfie Blom is an idiot. You’ll always be my best friend.”

“Even though I’m adopted?” Harry blinks, the thick line drawn on his forehead moving down, then back up. “’cause Alfie said – “

“You’ll always be my brother just the same. You’d still be the heir even if I wasn’t, you know. It’s the law. We’re stuck together forever.” For effect, Zayn inches over and presses himself against Harry’s side. “See?” Harry giggles.

“Forever.”

Zayn doesn’t hear the footsteps in the doorway. By the time he notices the shadow descending on them, it’s too late.

“Zanirah! What are you _doing_?” comes his mother’s sharp voice. Zayn jumps up as she appears behind them with narrowed eyes. “What are you wearing?” Even in the dark, he can see the way her lip curls with anger. “You made your younger brother dress up in this?”

“She didn’t – “ Harry starts, but their mother shoots him a withering glare, and he goes silent.

“For goodness sake, I know you like to play in boy’s clothes, but you can’t drag your little brother into this. You’re too old for dress-up.” He sees her jaw clench. “And sneaking out! You are a young lady, and you can’t be playing like this any longer. It’s not right.”

“We’re sorry, mother,” Zayn tries. He can’t bring himself to look at her. His eyes fix down at the floor, frozen.

Their mother turns to Harry, who is also staring glumly at the ground. Zayn feels a sharp pang of guilt. “Harold. You remove those ridiculous clothes, clean yourself up, and go to bed.”

Harry blinks up at her and tries one last time. “But ‘s just for fun – “

“Bed,” she intones sternly.  With that, he takes off the headpieces and places them on the floor beside him, and lets the oversized tunic and bow slip off of him before he pads out the door. Zayn moves to follow after him, but their mother holds him back.

“No. Look at me,” she commands.

He reluctantly looks up. Her dark eyes meet his for a moment, and she begins pacing back and forth in front of him. Her voice is terrifyingly calm when she stops and resumes.

“You know that you are the future Queen.” Zayn nods. “Harold is a child, but you’re a young lady. You should know better. Your behavior is important” She turns to him abruptly. “What has gotten into you? First, you get into a _fight_ , and now this?”

Zayn hadn’t meant to get into a fight at school yesterday. It’s just that they were playing handball, and Alfie Blom had said he threw like a _girl_. There’s nothing wrong with that – after all, Sophie is a girl and she can throw farther than any of the boys – but it’s the principle of it. At first Zayn had called him a mouth-breather, but then Alfie shoved him, and he’d only tried to stand his ground.

His mom wouldn’t hear any of it, though. _Girls don’t fight. Princesses don’t fight._ Princesses don’t do anything, Zayn thinks sullenly. He wishes, not for the first time, that he wasn’t one.

Her expression grows more determined. “Your father and I have spoken about it,” she declares. “Zanirah, we have tried to give you freedom and the chance to experience a normal life, but clearly it’s time that you start taking on more responsibility for your future. From this day forward, you are not to bring your brother into any of your mishaps. Understand?”

“Yes, mother.”

“You may play with Lana and Shauna. They are the children of the _butler_ and even they know how to act properly.”

“But – “

“And,” she continues. “You will not be returning to school. You will begin private tutoring here, in the castle, where you will learn to be a proper young lady, a Princess and a Queen. Is that clear?”

Zayn’s heart drops in his chest. He likes school. He has always been told that he wouldn’t attend forever, as he would eventually start receiving private tutoring instead, but he thought that would happen when he was older. It wasn’t supposed to happen _now._

It wouldn’t have happened now, if he was different. 

He doesn’t talk back to his mother, though. He can’t do anything about it. Her words are solid as soon as they exit her mouth. He merely nods, willing his eyes to not fill with tears.

It’s not just that he’s never going back to school, or that he can’t play with his brother anymore. It’s not even that his mum is mad at him for being naughty. It’s more that his mum is _so_ angry and disappointed in him, when he never felt like he was doing anything so terribly wrong in the first place. It’s something deeper, like he didn’t merely do something wrong; _he’s_ the thing that’s wrong.

In the washroom, he splashes water on his face quickly, never looking at himself in the mirror. He returns to bed quietly. He can’t sleep.  

Fifteen minutes later, when Harry inevitably creeps up to whisper at his door, Zayn ignores him. He ignores the eventual creaking of the door hinge, the persistent tugging at his blanket and the sound of Harry’s pleas and apologies. He remains silent for what feels like ages, until Harry finally gives up.

 

❄ _20_ ❄

Zayn has never liked mirrors. He never looks directly at them, always averting his eyes and not really focusing on his face or body. He has other people for that; he has a whole team responsible for making him look exactly the way that his parents crafted for a proper future Queen. He lets them do their thing. He tries not to think about it. He’s blank, empty.

Today, it shows.

Today, it can’t show.

Zayn wills himself to stare at his reflection in the dressing-room mirror. His whole life has led up to today. In less than an hour, he will be the official Queen of Arendelle.

The entire castle has been in a frenzy in the weeks leading up to today’s ball. They haven’t had a party this size in years, probably since before his parents’ death, and a massive amount of planning and work went into this.

Over the past weeks, Zayn has lost himself in the preparations: the endless fittings and rehearsals, the questions and lines he needs to memorize. He’s spent hours with Caroline getting fitted for his dress, a royal purple gown they’d decided on months ago; he’s been to her room for about a dozen fittings and measurings until every part was sewn just right. He’s stayed up late every night memorizing the names and faces and facts of all the important figures who will be attending the ball: homes, children, spouses and lovers, what topics are taboo and who’s most important to schmooze.

He’s answered countless inquiries from the staff about every tiny detail, from the tablecloths to the curtains to the plating of the desserts. It’s exhausting.

There have been moments when it feels like too much, when he felt like the mirror might crack and reveal his façade, that he’s been simply playing this part for his entire life. His parents always told him, though, that that’s what this life is. Maintaining a public persona even when it’s not exactly the same as the private one, hiding discomfort for the sake of appearance. _Conceal, don’t feel._

He’s kept his head down. His birthday passed.  

He hasn’t seen Liam since that last night of Yule. He couldn’t bear to go out to the garden on his birthday. His heart hurts when he wonders how long Liam probably waited for him in the melting snow. He probably brought a little fruit pie from the bakery in town, or some little trinket poorly wrapped in colored paper. Last year he gave him a deck of cards with animals drawn on them; the year before, a little wooden figurine of a bear that he’d explained, rosy-cheeked, that he’d carved himself.

Zayn won’t see him again. That face doesn’t exist, and that person doesn’t exist. The real Zayn wears a tailor-made dress and tall shoes and powder to make his face white and his eyes dark. He’s learned since an early age that his body, his appearance, his demeanor? None of that belongs to himself. It’s for the kingdom.

The last of his army of stylists has just left. They’d started first thing this morning. He’d stood slack like a ragdoll, like a good princess, and let them do as they wished as they dressed him up, did his hair, covered his face in powder and color and eye paint.

He’s tied into a tight corset that heaves back at him with every breath, amplifying his chest in a way that makes his shoulders desperate to slump forward. But he must maintain good posture. He has an undergown on top of it, anyway, beneath the regal purple silken gown, long and elegant with pleats and narrow sleeves.

Caroline has adorned his hair with a few pearls and understated royal purple ribbons matching his dress. It’s tied up in neat, high braids, black extensions clipped tight onto his scalp. The clips hurt, tearing at his scalp even harder than the ones he’s been wearing for the past weeks, but he can’t do anything about it now. It looks good, she had said, and she’s right.  

He looks good. He looks fine.

He looks like someone else.

He glances to the dressing-room wall, to the faded daguerreotype picture immortalizing the coronation of his mother.

He wishes she were here.  If she could see him right now, she would know exactly what to say. She’d say something sharp and witty, tell him to toughen up, that he’s being silly, that he’s got this. His father, too: he would squeeze Zayn’s shoulder and ruff at his hair, then laugh at the inevitable ire of his mother for messing it up.

He wishes he could be more like her. She was strict and stern sometimes, but she was strong, so strong, and so sure of everything she ever did.

He imagines that his own scene this afternoon will look similar to the picture. His grandmother, the queen pro tempore, aged by 30 years but still unmistakably the same woman as the one in the picture, will hand him the scepter. He’ll grip it solemnly and pledge his unwavering support and leadership to the kingdom before they place the gold, diamond-studded crown onto his head and pronounce him Queen.

His gaze flits between the picture and his own image in the mirror, and he tries to mimic his mother’s pose: back straight, chest out, composed smile, steady hands folded around the scepter.  

It doesn’t feel right. His hands are shaking, and he doesn’t look like her, can’t match the regal pose no matter how hard he tries.

The problem is that he feels like he’s looking at someone else. He can move his hand or straighten his back, but the person in the mirror doesn’t look right at all.

He feels like he’s looking at a ghost. It looks like him; he knows this – the same long black eyelashes and straight nose, his mother’s cheekbones and his father’s olive skin beneath powder, but he doesn’t look right. It’s like he can’t recognize himself.

He doesn’t look like a queen, and he certainly doesn’t feel like a queen.

It’s not new, the looking in the mirror and feeling like someone else is staring back at him, a disassociation ringing through his ears. It’s not new, and it’s happening more frequently lately.

He absently and compulsively smooths at the pleats on his dress. He’s losing it. He takes a slow, calming breath: he can do this. It’s just nerves. He’s been preparing for this moment for his entire life, and his fear is just a feeling. It’s all just feelings. _Don’t feel_ , he reminds himself as he presses at the midsection of the corset.

“It’s only a feeling,” his parents used to tell him when he complained about having to dress up for balls.

“ _But it’s uncomfortable,_ ” he would explain. The outfits were itchy and the sleeves made him feel like he couldn’t move his arms.

His father used to chuckle. He said it was part of the job, that being royalty means playing your role and hiding your discomfort until you’re out of the public eye. “Just don’t let it show,” his dad would say knowingly, giving his shoulder a good-natured squeeze. “You think I like having thing choking my neck?” he’d ask with a chuckle, tugging at his tie. “But it’s important when you’re a figurehead for the kingdom. Appearance in public is important, but it doesn’t last forever.“

Zayn didn’t know how to tell him that his discomfort didn’t go away like that, when he wriggled out of his formalwear and into a nightgown or a simpler frock; that it was something else, beyond physical discomfort, something he couldn’t place.

He supposes that he should have known this would happen.  He’s avoided balls and parties for the past decade of his life; the last time they opened the palace gates for an event like this was just before his parents died. But time is finally moving on, and he needs to step up and get over whatever preoccupation he has with the uncomfortable garments of his youth.

It’s not just clothing, though. His form isn’t right. He can puff out his chest and walk gracefully, with his feet close together; he can mimic exactly the poses they taught him in finishing class, but it still looks somehow wrong. It feels wrong, the way people look at him, and the way he looks at himself.

This is poor timing. He has a kingdom to lead. He has negotiations to make. Trade deals are ending soon, and there are threats of uprising in the outskirts. He’s not inheriting a perfect situation, and though he has spent his whole life preparing for his job, he still needs to devote undivided attention to the matters at hand. He has important decisions, like who to appoint to his cabinet of ministers and advisers, and how to settle the unrest between the North and East territories before war breaks out.

It’s just that when he thinks about his future as a public role, everything feels like sandpaper against his skin, like struggling to breathe, like waiting for something that will never happen _-_  

No time for the thoughts. No time for these feelings, for feeling and thinking and questioning his identity.

Today isn’t the day to get existential or wallowing. Today is the day he will stand in front of his entire kingdom and pledge his loyalty to be the best Queen he can be, to guide the kingdom and to care for its people with grace and diligence.

But how can he promise to be a competent leader if he doesn’t even know who he is?

He’s losing it, god. Today isn’t the day.

 _This is me,_ he reminds himself roughly, raising his left hand to grip his shoulder, pressing his nails sharp enough into the skin to draw blood and forcing himself to look at the princess, the future Queen, staring back at him in the mirror. _This is me._

A knock from the doorway startles him. Zayn turns to open the door and Higgins, the butler, peers his head in. He pauses, looking Zayn up and down.

“Is everything alright, my lady?” he asks hesitantly.

He straightens up immediately, composes himself into his script of easy confidence, eyebrows arched, mouth curved on the edge of a smile.

“Yes, Higgins. Thank you.”

“Very good,” he nods before continuing with his inquiry. “The clock has just struck eleven, and the people are beginning to assemble outside the castle. Shall we open up the gates?”

 

 

 

“We now welcome the royal Court of Arendelle.” The voice sounds muffled from Zayn’s place on the stairway. He can hear the buzzing from the ballroom below them.

He turns around to see Harry walking down the hallway, resplendent in a navy suit with gold trim. Zayn shakes off the prickling feeling that he can’t place, and instead he waves Harry over to stand beside him.

Harry’s eyes widen, and he breaks into a grin and bounds over to stand beside him.

“Hi.” He gives a little wave before looking Zayn up and down. “Wow. You look beautiful.”

Zayn swallows. “So do you – I mean, handsome.”

“Thank you.” Harry bounces on his heels. “This is like, so _exciting._ There are many people.” He leans down to look at the crowd in the ballroom, goggle-eyed.

Zayn bites his lip. “I know,” he says, nerves bubbling in his stomach. So much could go wrong in this space. “Are you nervous?”

He notices at once that Harry doesn’t look how Zayn feels. His eyes are wide with pure exhilaration. “No. I love it,” he breathes. “It’s so exciting. Actual, real-life people, _here_. God, I’m so ready for a change.“ He grins. “Aren’t you?”

The voice from below begins announcing the royal family. “Everyone assemble to your places,” whispers their handler.

“Right,” Harry breaks his gaze. “I guess I’ll…” he trails off and steps down closer to the front of the line behind their grandmother.

As the speaker drones on about the kingdom and the history, Harry looks back and catches gaze again. The corner of his mouth twitches upwards.

As kids, they always hated this stuff.  They used to see who could cough the loudest without anyone noticing, or try to poke each other in the side or make faces and see who could go the longest without laughing and earning a severe look from the nanny.

Zayn turns his nose up and squints his eyes imperceptibly, and Harry stifles a giggle and crosses his eyes.

The orchestra begins to play, and slowly his grandmother begins to step down the stairway, followed by Harry, then Zayn.

“The Queen of Arendelle.” He tries to forget about all of the eyes watching him and only him as he enters the stage. He can’t mess this up.

And somehow, he doesn’t. He’s oddly calm and composed as he steps forward to hold the scepter while the rest of the words come out just as they’ve practiced a million times. It’s rote memory; this, he can perform. He breathes and wills his hands not to shake. He promises to take this sacred duty; he promises to protect the land. They place the crown on his head, say a few more words, and everyone claps. He feels the applause reverberate through him as if he’s hollow.

He takes a measured breath. It’s what his parents would want. It’s their legacy, his duty, and he can do it.

When the ceremony finally ends, the people eat and mingle while Zayn is expected to hold court, making a show of greeting nobles, getting kissed on the hands, enquiring after grandchildren and fielding inquiries about his own life. He tries to do it with a detached grace that has them leaving as soon as possible with a positive impression.

As he’s exiting a particularly dull conversation, he spies Harry backed up in a corner by an animated Annabel Thatcher, Duchess from a neighboring kingdom. Their eyes meet, and Harry deftly excuses himself and makes his way toward him.

“I think you’ve really charmed Lady Annabel over there,” Zayn observes, amused.

“I didn’t mean to!” Harry protests. “I thought I was just being nice.”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “You’re an eligible bachelor.”

Harry wrinkles his nose. “Yeah,” he sighs. His nose twitches again. “Is that chocolate? I’m hungry.”

They sneak over to the dessert table. The number of profiteroles they eat is probably unbecoming for royalty, and the amount of chocolate they pour on top certainly is. For a moment, he feels like a kid again, sneaking pastries with his little brother.

“Dance with me,” Harry implores suddenly. “My sister, the Queen.” Zayn turns to the ballroom floor. He hadn’t noticed that dancing had started, men taking rigid steps and women spinning in their gowns.

His head starts spinning just as much. He hates this feeling, like static, and he doesn’t realize he’s frowning.

Harry steps back. “Oh. Sorry, I didn’t mean to -”.

Just like that, the moment shatters. Harry’s smile drops into something forced. “Excuse me,” he says, before bowing backwards.

Zayn watches him go to the edge of the dance floor. He stumbles and bumps into a tall man, blond and handsome, and his smile returns – the genuine one, not the forced one. After a moment, Harry shyly takes his hand and they disappear together into the crowd.

Zayn grits his teeth.  It’s hard to not be jealous. Harry’s happy, like this; he always has been. He probably never wants to jump out of his own skin; he can probably even stand to look at himself in the mirror without recoiling.

“Zanirah,” his grandmother approaches him. She touches him on the cheek. “You did beautifully. You look just like your mother.”

Zayn thanks her politely, though his throat feels tight. He’s never been close to her, not like Harry is. He tries to make nice with her, and with the other guests. He sips champagne, and he makes courteous conversation, and he declines a few more opportunities to dance with snobby men in his frilly dress and bleached face and -

The air in the room feels suffocating.

Everyone wants to dance with him. Older and younger men who look at him with lecherous gazes, or sometimes with a simpering smile like he’s a little girl. He smiles back with polite disinterest. He knows exactly what they want. But he smiles diplomatically and allows them to kiss his hand before politely declining, ignoring the growing slimy feeling tingling up his spine.

He downs another glass of wine. He suddenly feels as if he can’t breathe.

“Excuse me.” He gracefully slides past the crowd and into the back washroom. He opens the window, and cool air comes rushing in.

He stares into the mirror, fighting a growing and alarming urge to punch it. He wills himself to calm down.

He’s losing it _. Conceal, don’t feel_. It’ll all be over soon. Except it _won’t_ , is the thing. Nothing will ever be the same. This is his life now. The magnitude of that fact feels crushing.

He runs a hand over his head.  He can’t recognize himself. He’s probably just having a mid-life crisis – a coronation-time crisis. The incessant yanking at his hair is getting to his brain; he feels like his hair might rip right out of his scalp. The braid is too tight; he should have said something to Caroline earlier. He carefully reaches up and detaches one of the clips, then the next, shifting them just a bit looser. He splashes water on his face, careful not to disturb his makeup, and takes a few breathes. He feels his claustrophobia wane a bit.

He exits the washroom gracefully. Maybe he _should_ dance with Harry after all; better him than anyone else.

He searches the crowd and spots his brother standing in a corner with the same tall guy from earlier, laughing, their faces close.

That Harry prefers the company of men isn’t a secret, and it’s always been accepted readily enough, despite Harry’s position in the royal family. He’s jealous of the way scrutiny seems to wash off of Harry. If Zayn were in Harry’s position, then maybe things would be different.

He fields a few more inquires, more requests to dance. He pours more wine. He’s regretting it already, his throat dry no matter how many glasses of wine he downs.

Then Harry is approaching, holding the tall man by the hand toward his place on the steps by the stage. “Harry,” Zayn says, grateful for the relief from everyone else. “Who is this?” Harry looks kind of giddy as he glances up at the man, his cheeks blushed and dimples popping inward.

“This is my sister Zanirah,” he says, and Zayn’s stomach has time to drop into knots before Harry corrects himself with a tucked little grin, “Zee. We call her Zee, did I tell you that?” He turns back to Zayn. “This is Nick. Nicholas.” Zayn nods.

Nick bows. “Your highness.”

“Nicholas Arthur, son of Baron Arthur from the Midland Islands?” Nick nods, and Zayn is secretly pleased that his practice has paid off; he knows everyone. “I met your father once. Pleasure to meet you,” Zayn says.

Harry pauses, flashing another giddy grin at Nick, before continuing, practically babbling. “I wanted you to meet him, and I also want your approval to marry him.”

“What?” Zayn sputters.

“We’re engaged!” Harry exclaims, laughing with joy. His curls bounce on his head as he stands on his toes. “I know it’s fast, but we just _clicked_ , you know?” Zayn looks warily between them. One of the advisors is looking over at them now. Zayn swallows.

“Well, congratulations. When do you plan to wed?” A royal wedding this summer or autumn, if properly planned, could be a good event for the start of his reign, and for the kingdom.

“Tomorrow!” Harry blurts out excitedly. “I was thinking we could use the garden, and – “

“Whoa,” Zayn holds out a hand. Tomorrow? “I think it’s a little fast – “

“But we just can’t wait.  We want to do it now.”

Zayn tries to remain calm, with reason. “Don’t you think you should wait a while?”

Harry frowns. “Why?”

“We would need to plan. And I’m sure Nicholas is lovely, but surely you can get to know each other a bit more before – “

Harry’s face has darkened considerably. Zayn can see the tension in his hand where he’s gripping Nick’s. He sets his mouth into a firm line. “We’re doing it tomorrow.”

“Harry - “

“Do we have your permission, or not?”

Zayn glances at the advisor behind him. “For tomorrow? No.” He says firmly.

Harry steps backwards, eyes flashing with anger. “I should have known you wouldn’t support me. We don’t need your permission anyway,” he retorts. “I can do what I want. We can do what we want,” he tells Nicholas.

To his credit, Nicholas looks like he’s in over his head a bit. His throat gulps as he turns to Harry. “Harry, it’s alright. If we have to wait, I understand, we can - ”

“We don’t have to wait,” Harry says decisively, turning back to face Zayn. “Why don’t you care about my happiness?”

“I do,” is all Zayn can say. “I’m only suggesting a few months – “

“All my life, I’ve been passed over. The _spare_ kid. You were too busy to play with me or spend time with me, mum and dad were too busy minding _you_ to pay me any attention. And _now_ you want to tell me what to do?”

The words sting, but Zayn channels his mother. “You are an adult, and you are free to do as you wish,” he says evenly. “But if you want to do this properly, legitimately in the eyes of this court and this kingdom, you will need to wait for the appropriate channels.”

“No.”

“Harry - “

“We’re doing it,” Harry stomps, glaring down at Zayn. He takes one step down on the stairs. “We’re doing it no matter what you say, and – “

And then he takes another step, and he trips and stumbles forward. A glass clatters to the floor as he reaches for a grip, and then Harry is looking for something else to grab, and he ends up clutching to Zayn’s hair, a big chunk. It yanks right off of his head.

The room falls silent except for a collective gasp. Everyone is staring at him, _everyone_ , and Harry looks dumbstruck looking up with a chunk of hair in his hold. Zayn can feel the cold ballroom air at the side of his head.

He reaches up self-consciously; one of the braids is still there, but the one on the left is gone, revealing nothing underneath. He sees Caroline, resplendent in her blue dress, already taking action, sweeping toward them.

But in that moment, he knows, they’ve already seen him. Everyone sees him, and he feels exposed. Something crystallizes inside of him. He feels weak and powerless, inept and like all of this, his entire life, was a terrible idea.

His mind is careening away from him, impossible to stop. “Excuse me.” He doesn’t look back as he swiftly exits behind the stage, into the washroom again. He takes a breath.

Nineteen years of wearing his hair long, putting on gloves and a dress every time he so much as left the bedroom, avoiding the feelings that thrum louder and louder telling him that this isn’t right, this isn’t him -

Maybe he’s been pushing them away for too long. Maybe he’s been pushing everything away for too long.

He knows Caroline is probably waiting outside. He could go out and pretend that nothing happened. But he can’t. He can’t even look at himself. It’s like his reflection could walk right out of the frame of the mirror.

He feels like someone else has inhabited his body, and he’s coming closer and closer to bursting out of it.

An icy draft of air blows across his face, stalling the tears at the corners of his eyes and reminding him that the small window is still open. He has a sudden realization that he could have ten minutes, at least, before anyone will be truly wondering about him. Something rises in his throat. His mind computes cold calculations, the perk of practicing conflict management and strategies for the past 19 years of his life.

He’s leaving.

The realization hits him, and before he can convince himself otherwise, he’s moving toward the window. He carefully opens it fully and steps up on the low shelf beside it. He grips the windowsill as he slings each leg through, and he perches there for a moment before sliding out, landing feet-first, softly, onto the grass a short story below.

Then he runs.

He runs quietly, adept at curving silently through the maze of footpaths around the castle. He knows no one is likely around to see, but he remains close to the walls, allowing the evening’s near-darkness to hide him, the sky blue-black even at this early hour this time of year.

The castle’s main living area is eerily empty now; every person typically in the castle is currently at the ball, whether for work or for recreation, to witness the momentous event. He  has about five more minutes before someone might realize that he’s gone, and he’s not going to let anyone find him.

Years of crisis training have taught him how to act quickly and decisively; and ironically, that’s exactly what enables him to move so adeptly through the house gathering what he needs. He starts in the dressing room, pulling off the hair extensions and nearly tearing off his dress and corset to in favor of his preferred clothes. He shoves a slew of other clothing from the back of the closet into a sack, and he fills another bag with food and supplies from the upstairs pantry and from his room.

He does it all unthinking, numb, and he hardly registers all the things he brought. He stops one more time, reaching into the back of a dusty hall closet to pick up his father’s old sheepskin coat, before throwing it over his shoulders and running back down the stairs to the foyer.  

He exits the castle through a back door, the one that leads directly to the stables. The frigid air bites at his skin, but he sprints all the way there, and his lungs burn by the time he arrives. He wastes no time saddling up a horse and packs his bags into her saddle before maneuvering onto her back, lantern in hand.  He nudges at her sides, and they run into the darkness.

 

❄ _9_ ❄

“Zanirah, wake up.” Zayn’s mum’s whispers jolt him awake. “Come on. Hurry and get up. We’re leaving soon.”  

“Where are we going?” he murmurs groggily. He rubs sleep from his eyes, even though he’s been drifting in and out of sleep since the long summer sun rose hours ago.

He can hear the smile in her voice when she replies. “We’re going up to the cabin for a few days.”

Zayn sits up at that, sleepiness effectively banished and replaced with excitement. “Really?” Their parents had said they wouldn’t have time to go up to their vacation cabin this summer. They must have somehow arranged a short break before the Solstice ball.

His mother nods, eyes twinkling. “Come on, I have a sweet roll for you to eat on the way. Get dressed, and get your hair done.”

By the time Zayn gets outside to the stables, his hair tied back in a ponytail and his little rucksack slung over his shoulders, Harry and their dad already have two of the largest horses saddled and packed up. The cabin stays well-stocked throughout the year, so they don’t need to bring much.

“There she is!” His father beams. He ruffles Zayn’s hair before taking his rucksack to put it into the saddle bag. Then he turns to Harry and motions to the black horse behind them. “Harry, you help your mother up to the back, and you’ll sit in front and steer.” Harry’s eyes widen and he scampers back to his horse, delighted. “And you” - Yaser reaches down to pick up Zayn and put him on their horse - “let’s get you on the back of Sven here behind me.”

Zayn frowns. “Why does Harry gets to ride in the front?” he demands. Harry is two _years_ younger than Zayn, yet he’s allowed to steer his own horse, while Zayn has to sit back behind his father like some kind of baby.

His dad’s eyes flick to his mom’s and then back at him. “Well, he’s been taking lessons longer than you – “

“But that’s because you didn’t let me!“ he protests. His schedule was too full with other things for him to learn any of the fun skills Harry got to do, like archery and horseback riding. Zayn had begged for years, until his parents finally relented and allowed him once-a-week lessons last year. “I’m good now! And Sven loves me.” He holds out a hand, and Sven snuffs at it in approval. “Mr. Hughes says I’m a natural.“

“Z, ” his mother interrupts coolly. Her horse trots up beside them, Harry holding the reigns with delight. “Why don’t you just relax, and be grateful that we can rest while the men do all the work.” She smiles.  Zayn scowls.

Harry isn’t a man. He’s _seven._

Zayn bites back the words as he climbs up the back of Sven’s saddle. His father climbs up in front of him, and both horses start out on the path behind the castle.

Despite his sour mood, he can’t help but enjoy the journey. The cabin path winds through the forest to the foothills northeast of the castle, and the deep woods are a stark change from the castle environment that he so rarely leaves. It’s lovely, everything dark green, with traces of late spring flowers in the clearings. The trip takes about half the day, with a few breaks in between for stretching and watering the horses.

The summer sun is still high in the sky when they reach the hill where the cabin sits. Although somehow always prepared for their arrival, the cabin remains unused for most of the year.

He jumps off the horse as soon as they reach the rails outside the little stable attached to the cabin. Zayn stretches his legs and looks around. For the next several days he’ll be free to play and explore without any worries or responsibilities.

He ambles across the meadow to the creek that winds behind the cabin toward the lake. Butterflies flutter around the flowering shrubs on either side as he follows alongside the creek, kicking stones and tree branches. He stops on a rock and he reaches to touch the cool water, cupping some into his hands to drink. When he looks up, he notices a pair of cocoons hanging off of the branch in front of him, two shells disguised as brown rotting leaves tied to the branch with silk.

He knows about caterpillars, how they transform into hard shells, melt inside like soup, and then re-form and burst out into wings of color. He gives the cocoons a few gentle pokes, but they’re hard and unmoving. He shrugs and stands up.

“Zee!” Harry’s faint voice, echoing from the other side of the hill, catches his attention. He racing around the hill.

“Zee!”  

By the time he comes into view, Harry’s mouth is covered with bright purple. ”Blueberries!” he shouts with a grin, baring blue-stained teeth. Zayn plucks one off of the bush and pops it into his mouth. It’s delicious.

Zayn joins him in scarfing down as many berries as they can, seemingly endless on the briar of bushes. Soon enough, their parents join in, bringing along sack to fill so they can take more home to the cabin.

They spend the rest of the evening collecting and gorging themselves on the sweet berries. At night, his mom starts a fire in the pit outside the cabin. They roast potatoes, and for dessert they cook a pot of crushed blueberries with sugar, and spread it on bread. Zayn lies on his back, and his mum and dad point up naming the stars in the dusky sky, until his eyelids grow heavy and he falls asleep right there, awakening only for a moment when his father is carrying him inside to bed.

The weather grows hotter the next day. After breakfast, while their dad cleans up and their mom sits with a book, Zayn and Harry wander outside, where the sun is already scorching. Harry tugs at his arm.

“Let’s go swimming in the lake.”

Zayn’s first instinct is to hesitate, but the weather is perfect for swimming. They sprint toward the edge of the lake, where a sturdy branch juts off a tree at exactly the right height to jump off of. They race to shed their socks and shirts on the shore.

Zayn wins while Harry is still struggling to pull of his left sock. He leaps off the branch feet-first, and by the time he recovers from the shock of the cold water, Harry jumps in and nearly lands on top of him. They splash at other for a while, until Zayn clamors out back to the ledge and jumps again, this time curling up his body and managing nearly a full flip in the air before splashing in.

“Let me try!” Harry runs back and makes an attempt, but he ends up bellyflopping at the last minute instead.”

“You have to curl up,” Zayn explains, walking with Harry and trying to show him how to stand and throw himself forward so he can tuck in his legs and roll through the air. He stands beside him on the ledge. “Lean forward, grab your legs…” Harry leaps, managing a cannonball instead and landing with a mighty splash. Zayn laughs prepares to jump in after him.

“Zanirah!” His mother’s voice is sharp, and he turns around, beads of water running down from his hair onto his bare back. She sighs, placing her quill pen behind her ear. “What have I told you?“ Her eyes are narrowed. “Zanirah, you must wear your tunic when you swim.”

He’s always swum without a shirt. “But it drags in the water,” he explains. “I never wear a tunic.” He’s a bit puzzled: sure, now that he thinks about it maybe she’s mentioned it before, but he just doesn’t see why he should.

“You’ve grown too old for this,” she intones, more sternly. She grabs his shirt from the branch where he’d hung it, and hands it to him. “It’s not appropriate. I told you this last year. You’re a young lady, and it’s not right.”

Zayn pouts. “But Harry doesn’t – “

“Harry is a boy,” she says simply.

Harry has been watching curiously from the water, and Zayn suddenly wonders how much he’s heard. He’s probably too far away to hear much, but the prospect is enough to transform his indignation into shame. He doesn’t want Harry to know – what, exactly? That they’re different? Harry already knows that. That Zayn is in trouble? That there’s something _wrong_ with him?

He puts his shirt back on over his wet torso, and his cheeks continue to burn as his mother reprimands him.

“Yes, mama,” he says obediently. “I’m sorry.”

She nods, and finally her eyes soften and she pats him on the head. She crouches down to his level. “You’re a princess, you know. And one day you’ll be the Queen. You will have a whole kingdom to watch over. A whole kingdom that will be watching _you._ ”

“I know.” He swallows.

“You need to be ready to lead. You need to set a good example.”

He nods. “Okay.”

“Good.” She pulls him into a hug, his wet clothes soaking into her dress a bit. “Now go on and play. Your father will call you when supper is ready.”

As she walks back toward the cabin, Zayn can see from the corner of his eye that Harry is still waiting, watching from the water. Zayn doesn’t look at him, instead turning in the opposite direction.

He kicks rocks out of his path as he stalks through the forest following the creek upstream. He – he knows, he supposes, that he’s not like his brother. It’s not new information. He knows Harry is a boy and he’s a _girl_. He’s the princess. He knows that. His body is something else; it’s different, and it’s supposed to be different. He knows.

Why does he keep forgetting?

Sometimes, he can’t help himself from thinking that life would be easier – better – if he were a boy. He likes girls fine; and his mum has always told him that girls can do anything boys can do. If they can inherit the throne, then there’s nothing they can’t do.

He believes her. He just feels like it doesn’t mean anything to him. He’s never been like the other girls. The girls in the castle, and back when he went to school, just aren’t the same as him, somehow.

Maybe something is wrong with him.

The clearing opens up in front of him, but he follows along the stream. He plucks a few sour blueberries from a bush as he kicks another rock out of his path, muddling his reflection in the stream.

What if he had been born a prince? Would he look like Harry; would he grow up to look like his father? What would his life be like?

Or what if he wasn’t a princess or prince at all, but just a normal person, born in town to a more normal family?

He’d ride the horses all day. He’d learn to be a blacksmith or an archer or a fisherman living in a cabin just like this one. He’d have friends to play pirates and build forts with. He’d swim all he wanted and he’d dress like his dad.

He thinks that maybe he’d have his grandfather’s name. _Zayn._

He shakes his head. It’s not right, he knows, to think about it; it can’t happen.

Suddenly he recognizes his surroundings: the large stone in the middle of the creek, where he’d stopped a few days ago when they first arrived. He searches for the branch where he’d seen the cocoons.

The one on the right is empty, a translucent shell hanging down. The second one, though, is still hanging there, and it’s covered in dark, fuzzy splotches. It looks ill.

He’d learnt, later, that the survival rate is low, that many can’t survive the transformation, turning black from parasites or rot and never opening up.

He thinks, then, sitting on his haunches and staring between them; and he thinks later, too, on occasions when he feels especially like something is wrong with him, that he’s like that second one. Like everyone else will grow up, finding that they’ve become what they always wanted to be, while Zayn will just rot.

He doesn’t hate his life. He likes it, most of the time. It’s just that sometimes, he can’t imagine a future where he’s truly happy.

Later that night, he can’t sleep. He creeps out to the porch and sits in the dark, just him and the stars. A faint light appears, streaks across the sky: a shooting star. He knows, by now, that wishes aren’t real. And he knows it’s not right. But in the deep, short night, he squeezes his eyes shut and wishes that he could be different, that tomorrow he’ll wake up as someone else, just like none of this life had ever happened.

 

❄ _20_ ❄

Everything looks just like he remembers from the last time he was here nearly ten years ago.

That’s Zayn’s first thought as he looks out the window into the first rays of morning light and surveys the hillside around the cabin. The patches of snow are a new sight - he’d only ever come here in the summer - and the grass around the cabin and the stable are clearly overgrown from years of underuse.

But it’s still the home he remembers. He’s here. A sense of elated disbelief suddenly bursts in his chest. He’s _here._

Inside, the cabin is surprisingly pristine, save for a thick coating of dust. It was crafted sturdy by his grandfather and great-grandfather, built to survive all types of storms, and he supposes it has. Some caretaker has obviously stopped here at some point in the past few years; there’s a small stack of firewood by the furnace, and the pantry is even stocked with a few jars and cans that look relatively recent.

He sorts through his clothing to find something warm. His eye catches something dark at the bottom of the bag, and on impulse, he pulls on the tight piece of fabric. He puts on a few more layers and looks at himself sideways, his body flat beneath the layers. Somehow the compression is nothing compared to the weight that he feels has been lifted.

Satisfied, he puts his father’s sheepskin coat on his shoulders and trods out the door.

He can see his breath in the dawn light as he walks down the path to the lake. He arrives just in time to watch the red sun rising over the horizon, beams of orange refracting over the lake’s frozen surface.

He bends down and picks a stone from the ground. After examining it for a moment, he throws it as hard as he can. It bounces twice from the frozen surface and skids on the ice for a distance before sliding to a stop. He smiles.

He’s free.

Free from all of the expectations and from the crushing pressure and from everyone who knows all the mistakes he’s ever made, all the ways he’s failed; free from the need to conform to their ideas about himself and his life and - everything.

He catches a glimpse of his blurred reflection in the ice, and notices that he forgot one of the hair extensions, a short braid attached at the top of his head. He rips it out and tosses it into the small section of unfrozen water where the creek meets the lake, watches it vanish into the water. It’s very cathartic.

By the time the sun has risen far over the horizon, his hands are starting to freeze, and his stomach beginning to rumble. He heads back to the cabin and rekindles the fire to make some tea. He doesn’t want to waste the daytime indoors, so he takes the tea and a few marzipan cookies, along with his sketchbook, and climbs from the porch up onto the gently sloping roof, settling up near the chimney where it’s warmer and the sod peeks out from under the snow. There, in the sunlight, legs pulls against his chest, cool breeze against his face, he can see out over the whole hilltop.

He inhales fresh air into his lungs as he looks out over the woods, nothing but hills, snowy trees, and isolation in every direction.

It’s funny how the distance makes his old life seem so _small._ This cabin is scarcely larger than his old bedroom, but he feels like he has infinitely more space here. He’s never felt so free. Out in the distance, somewhere behind the hills of hills, he knows, lies the center of the kingdom, the castle, his old home. From up here, it seems the size of an ant.  

He sips his tea and doesn’t let his mind fall to wondering what everyone is doing over there. They’re there, and he’s here, and they can’t get to him. No one can get to him.

And he’s never going back.

It’s liberating to let all of that go without a care: the expectations and the _responsibility_ and the need for hiding behind a crown and an image, concealing the real self that he knows no one wants to see. They only ever wanted him to be mother. He can’t be. He won’t be. This is him now: no fears, no hiding, no one controlling him.

He laughs, loudly, suddenly delighted. His laughter turns into yelling into the cold, whoops shrouded in puffs of white air. He yells louder and louder, just because he can, carrying out over the hills until his chest hurts and his throat burns. The noise startles a pair of birds off of a tree down the hill, and they take flight and disappear into the horizon.  He laughs again.

He’s never yelled like that before. It wouldn’t be proper to do that inside the castle; and even outside, someone would notice, and it would be cause for alarm.

He can think of a whole list of things he’s always wanted to do but couldn’t because of his position and his lifestyle and the constancy of prying eyes around the castle. He can do them here. He can scream if he wants to. He can spend a whole day singing, or drawing, or doing absolutely nothing. It’s elating.

He begins humming as he takes out his sketchbook and pencil, and he starts doodling while he finishes the last of his lukewarm tea.

He starts drawing a patterned circle, a mandala like his father used to teach him to draw when he was little. Zayn would watch, mesmerized, as he penned the intricate patterns into a piece of paper, and then he’d let Zayn color them in. At the time, young Zayn couldn’t imagine drawing such complex forms; and more recently, he couldn’t imagine having the _time_ to spend drawing such intricate patterns. But he can do it all now. He can spend exactly as much time as needs to pencil out the fractals upon fractals, cascading into and against each other.

A curious little blue-gray jay lands on the opposite edge of the roof. Zayn slowly turns the page, careful to not startle it, and starts sketching the little bird against the hilly backdrop. He watches carefully until it grows impatient and takes flight again.

At the edge of the page, he starts idly drawing in a human figure. At first he thinks it may be himself, but as his hands move, it morphs into someone else: Liam. It’s as he remembers the last time he saw him, hair cropped short, big eyes and small smile.

Zayn wonders, penciling in the contours of Liam’s face. If this was his life, his real life, what would happen if they’d met? He likes to think they’d still be friends. Under other circumstances, he wonders if they could even be something more. But, no – after everything, Liam has never looked at him like that, and Liam would never look at the real him like that. Not the real him.  

And What if he’d met Harry, too? He doesn’t know that they’d be friends. Harry lives a bigger life, a more _normal_ life, and he always has.

He shakes his head and resumes with his pencil the paper. He can’t think about Harry or Liam or anyone else now. He’s here to stay now, and he’s going to stay alone. He’s never minded being alone, though, and it’s a small price to pay for freedom.

He takes out some colored pencils, and he squints at the sky as he tries to match the exact hues on the page. A sheet of gray clouds is rolling into the sky now, and blocking out the low sun. The sky has begun turning a strange shade, almost green, and he wonders if it’s a sign of bad weather to come.

He doesn’t know how long he spends on the roof, watching, doodling and thinking. In the mid-afternoon, he goes in and cooks some beans and canned fruit. Surveying the supplies, he figures he has enough to last a couple of weeks – longer if he can catch some fish to eat alongside the non-perishables. He supposes when he starts running out, he’ll disguise himself and go down to the supply store nearby, between here and the Northern province. He can always hunt and find berries, or grow plants to eat in the summer.

He can live here forever. He can live and make art and _breathe,_ finally, in his own life. He feels like he has more power here than he ever would have had as Queen. _This_ is his kingdom now, and this is his life.

He keeps the coat on as he lies on the sofa, the small fire only providing some heat as the temperature drops in the late afternoon. The wind has begun to pick up, too; he can hear it rattling the windows, swirling through the trees in short gusts.

In the silence between particularly strong gusts of wind, he first hears the voices.

At first, he thinks he’s just imagining things, that it’s just acoustic illusion caused by the wind. But it keeps coming, maintaining a constant babble and growing louder and more distinctly human.

Finally, Zayn looks out the window, and then he sees something decidedly human. He sees his brother.

Zayn freezes. It doesn’t make sense. Harry shouldn’t be here; he _wouldn’t_ come here. Zayn all but abdicated, and the kingdom can easily be Harry’s now. And everyone loves him. He wanted to get _married_ today. Why would he even care to come looking for Zayn?

Zayn watches as Harry walks toward the door. He’s bundled in a heavy coat, wearing boots and gloves and a thick woolen hat. His cheeks are bright red, and it’s not hard to tell that he’s freezing. When Zayn hears a knock at the door, and a soft “Zee?” Zayn can’t do anything except open the door.

He doesn’t miss the way Harry’s eyes brighten when he sees him. Harry all but runs at him, dropping his bag on the porch and attacking him with a hug that takes him completely and utterly by surprise and propels both of them through the doorway.

“Harry, what are you doing here?” Zayn stammers.

Harry removes his hat and the scarf bundled around his face, and he cocks his head. “I was looking for you. I’m so glad you’re here. I – well, everyone - looked everywhere around the castle, and in town. And then I thought, well, maybe you came up here.”

“What about Nicholas?”

“He’s still back in town, at the castle.”

“You shouldn’t have come here.”

Harry frowns. “I’m sorry, Z. For everything. I didn’t mean to upset you, or to - your hair, I had no idea…” He pauses. “You look different. Is that dad’s coat?”

Zayn grits his teeth. “I look like I want to,” he says, maybe too defensively, because Harry steps back.

“You look good. And happier, relaxed. It’s good.”

“Really?” That takes Zayn a bit by surprise. His clothing is all their father’s, or things he’s nicked from the dressing room over the years, and he definitely looks improper by any normal standards, but Harry seems unaffected.

“Yeah. Is this why - ”

“You should go, really.” Zayn cuts him off. “You shouldn’t be talking to me. You should stay away. Go home. Does anyone know you’re here?”

“I – you don’t have to hide from me, Z. I’m here because I was worried about you.”

Zayn winces. He hadn’t considered that. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m fine. I just needed space.”

Harry shakes his head. “I’m just glad I found you. Can we put everything behind us?”

“Yeah,” Zayn finds himself nodding. “Sure.”

Harry smiles. “So you’ll come back?”

Zayn stiffens. “What –“

A tapping sound on the window stops him again. Craning his neck to look over Harry’s shoulder, he sees the silhouette of face peering through the translucent glass, and a gloved hand _tap tap_ ping at the pane. Behind the stranger in the window comes the faint sound of muffled laughter.

Harry glances backwards and grimaces, running a hand through his hair. “Uh. Sorry,” he says sheepishly as he turns between the window and Zayn. “Just, I didn’t know how to get here, and with the weather – I had to find someone who could take me here. Well, two people.”

“Are you gonna make us freeze out here?” the person shouts.

“We should probably let them in,” Zayn says, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah.” Harry sighs.

Zayn turns to open the door, peering out from behind it as the first stranger walks in. “Thank you _so_ much, Your Highness,” the young man says, his voice high and lilting and his tone unmistakably saturated with sarcasm. “Your Highness _es_ ,” he corrects with equal insincerity when he sees Zayn behind the door. If Zayn’s appearance surprises him, he doesn’t show it.

Harry scowls as the scruffy young man kicks off his boots, flinging bits of snow across the floor.

“Lou,” comes a second voice, its tone equal parts chastising and amusement. Zayn can’t place the voice’s familiarity as the man’s footsteps clunk onto the cabin floor, more carefully than his friend’s. Finally, he steps in far enough that Zayn can just barely see him around the door.

“Hello – “

He stops cold.

It’s Liam.

 

❄ _9_ ❄

“Come back!” Zayn shouts. His calls are in vain; the horse continues galloping through the meadow, reins hanging off her halter and flopping uselessly in the air as she runs. Zayn races after her.

She loops around near the edge of the forest. She’s not stupid; Zayn knows that she won’t stray far from the stables alone. He just needs to get her back before someone notices and tells the stable manager - or worse, his parents.

He’s spent the last week preparing for his first appearance in the court. His mother says he’s finally old enough, now that he’s become a _young woman_. It makes his stomach tangle into knots, like the time he ate too many clams and he couldn’t get out of bed for two days. His mother says that being nervous is normal, but he’s not sure she understands.

Earlier today, when she caught him trying on Harry’s lace-up oxfords instead of the silk slippers that she picked out, she was less than impressed. Zayn doesn’t see why it matters so much that everyone wear certain kinds of shoes, but it had earned him a stern reprimand, and he was banished from the dressing room.

He just needed some time to himself after that. No one was around the stable, so he knew he could sneak in some riding time on his favorite mare. Instead, she had gotten spooked and taken off before he could even finish putting on her saddle.

He watches as she changes course around a shrub. “Aha!” he sprints across her path, leaps over a rock, and somehow manages to grab the tip of one of the reins.

“C’mon, easy.” She whinnies as he holds on tightly, and she slowly settles, her pace slowing beside him. He brushes her nose.

A branch snaps in the wooded area behind them. She startles, and Zayn almost loses hold on the reins again, but he maintains his grip. She calms, and he looks back to where the sound came from.

Visible through the trees, a person is walking down the narrow path that winds through the woods here. They lock eyes for a moment of panic before Zayn realizes that it’s another kid, a boy he’s never seen and who appears to be nearly the same age as him. He’s holding a football under one arm.

“Sorry!“ the boy apologizes as he ducks under a branch and makes his way through the trees toward Zayn. “My ball got lost in the woods, and then _I_ got lost.” He finally emerges into the clearing.

“Is this your horse?” His big, brown eyes widen as he takes in the view of the back of the castle down the valley. “Do you work for the _castle?_ ”

“Um. Yeah,” Zayn answers, at a loss of what else to say

“I’m Liam. What’s your name?”

Zayn scratches his neck. It’s not a question he gets often; everyone, whether known to him or not, tends to know who he is. After a pause, he answers: “Z.”  He strokes his horse’s cheek. “And this is Hilda.” Liam raises a tentative hand in front of her nose, and Hilda moves forward to sniff at it. Liam giggles.

“I’ve never had a horse. My friend has a reindeer, though.” Liam says. “Well, it used to be _our_ reindeer, when we were neighbors, but then he had to move. They live in Doncaster now, but I still visit sometimes.”

Zayn frowns. He’s heard his parents talking about Doncaster, in increasingly hushed tones. It’s a small town on the outskirts of the Northern province, and he gathers there’s been some sort of unrest there, hostility to outsiders and to trade. But it must not be that bad if Liam spends time there.

Liam bounces the football on his knee twice before letting it drop down and holding it beneath one foot. “Do you wanna play?”

“I have to take Hilda back to the stable,” he explains.

“That’s okay. I can wait for you.” Liam pats Hilda on the nose one last time and then looks at Zayn expectantly.

He hasn’t played football for years, not since he was in school. Harry doesn’t play much, and the boys around the castle would never ask him to join their games. His mother wouldn’t allow it anyway.

But his mother won’t find out if no one ever tells her – and Liam certainly won’t, seeing as he doesn’t even seem to know who Zayn is.

“Okay,” Zayn decides. “I’ll come back.” He turns and takes off running with Hilda back to the stable.

He puts her back in with some fresh water, careful to leave everything exactly as he found it. He straightens his dungarees and checks his reflection in a rusty shovel to make sure his hair is still tucked under his cap.

A part of him doesn’t actually expect that Liam will still be waiting when he returns, but sure enough, he’s still there, sitting perched on a tree branch. He hops down.

“We should go somewhere else,” Zayn says. “C’mon, I’ll show you.” He leads Liam around the perimeter of the woods toward their destination, the empty meadow behind the gardens. It’s one of his favorite places on the castle grounds: it’s an empty field, so no one is ever around, and nobody can even see it for the high hedges encircling the gardens.   

Liam does most of the talking as they walk down the short trail broken through the woods. He chats about his classmates and his family’s store and the slingshot he made (and then broke) yesterday.

When they reach the gate surrounding the garden area, Zayn climbs over it, and after a moment Liam does the same. Liam startles when he sees that they’re walking into the castle grounds, instead of away from it. “Do you live in the castle?”

He’s not sure what to say, so he answers truthfully. “Yeah.”

“Where are you – oh.” Liam’s eyes widen. “Wait. You’re not the _prince_ , right?”

“No!” Zayn says, pitching his voice down. It’s not the first time someone has mistaken him for Harry. His mother always corrects them swiftly, and he always shrinks back. But here, it’s strangely exhilarating. “No; I just live there,” he clarifies. It’s vague enough; scores of people live in and around the castle, including all the staff and their families.

“Okay, good.” Liam seems satisfied with the answer. “I’ve always wanted to see the inside. I heard that everything is gold and crystal.”

“It’s not,” Zayn chuckles. “Only the ballrooms look like that.” They finally reach the edge of the clearing, and Zayn stops. “Here we are.” Without warning, Zayn snatches the ball from Liam’s hands, drops it to the ground, and takes off running with it.

“Hey!” Liam chases after him laughing across the field.

By the time the sun begins lowering in the sky, they’re both panting and dirty, and Zayn can’t stop smiling. He can’t remember the last time he spent all his energy playing like this. Liam cranes his neck toward the sky.

“I should go,” Liam says, catching his breath. “I need to pick up some things in town to bring home.”

Zayn should go inside, too. By now, someone is definitely looking for him, and he’ll need to be quick to change clothes before anyone finds him. “You were going into town?”

Liam nods. “I’m need to pick up some supplies to bring back to the shop.”

Zayn points toward the woods. “Head that way, just past the river. It’s a shortcut to the main square.”

“Thanks!” Liam scoops up his football. “You know, I come to town ‘most every Sunday,” Liam says. “Can I find you here again?”

“Yeah,” Zayn finds himself nodding a little too enthusiastically, but Liam doesn’t seem to mind. “Maybe, I mean. If I’m not busy…”

“Working, right,” Liam nods. “Well, I’ll look for you next time I’m passing through. I’ll take the shortcut.” He grins.

Zayn waits outside every day that he has time for the entire rest of the week, just in case Liam comes back. Sunday morning, he’s sitting on the gate and when pebble lands conspicuously at his feet. He’s still somehow surprised when he looks up to find a grinning Liam wielding a wooden slingshot.

Liam comes back the next week, too. And the next. The week after that, Zayn gets stuck in his parent’s meeting with the Lord of Farquith; but the next Sunday, when he spots Liam through the snow-dusted trees, Liam seems unfazed, and when Zayn tosses a handful of snow at him, it immediately devolves into a snowball fight.

Somehow, they seem to just fit together. Zayn has never had a real friend like this. Liam doesn’t know who he is or what he is, doesn’t judge or bat an eye if he gets mud all over his shoes, and isn’t afraid to lob a snowball at full-speed directly at his face.

They spend just as much time in quiet, too. Zayn never knows when Liam will show up, so he takes to sneaking off with his sketchbook or a book and spending whole days out in the garden. Sometimes Liam will just come and sit next to him, content to watch and chatter about his week. Sometimes, Zayn sneaks an extra book from the library, and they’ll just sit and read together. Liam brings Zayn sweets from the store, and occasionally Zayn brings him chocolates he sneaks from the kitchen.

He likes having someone to share his world – not the parts that everyone is supposed to know about, but his real world, his favorite songs and books and games and daydreams.

For all that Liam talks, he doesn’t ask many questions about Zayn’s day-to-day life, and when Zayn gives vague answers, Liam doesn’t push. Zayn is always careful to wear simple clothes befitting of a commoner, and he always arranges a cap or beanie over his head. He doesn’t know why, but he feels like it’s important. Anyway, his hair would get all messed up when they run around.

Liam doesn’t come by every week. On one spring day, when the last traces of snow have nearly disappeared, he confesses that he won’t be back for a while. “We get bigger shipments in the summer,” he says apologetically. “Since more people come through. I’ll be working in the store all day.”

Zayn’s heart sinks a bit in his chest. “Okay.” He swallows.

“But I’ll be back in Autumn,” Liam insists. “After the first frost.”

In any other circumstance, Zayn would doubt the truth of that statement. Autumn seems infinitely far away right now, and Liam could easily disappear into the outside world forever. But somehow, he finds himself believing Liam.

“Okay,” he says with hopeful hesitancy. “Promise?”

Liam nods firmly, his dark eyes never leaving Zayn’s. “Promise.”

 

 ❄ _20_ ❄

Liam’s eyes widen. His mouth gapes open mid-sentence.

“Hello,” Zayn croaks out.

“Your Highness,” Liam stammers. His eyes dart away from Zayn and settle firmly on the ground in front of him.

His friend throws him a quizzical look before turning to Zayn. “I’m Louis,” he says easily, sticking a hand out.

“This is Louis Tomlinson, of Doncaster in the Northern province,” Harry repeats after him with mild annoyance. “Louis, this the Queen, Zanirah. My sister.”

“I know how to introduce myself,” Louis snorts. His eyes, bright and blue, don’t leave Zayn’s as he takes Zayn’s hand and shakes it sharply.

“And this is Liam Payne, of Hampton, in the Northern province,” Harry continues, motioning at Liam.

Zayn nods and swallows the lump in his throat as Liam takes his hand weakly, eyes still cast downward.

Zayn clears his throat. “You two are familiar with this area?” he asks, motioning outside.   

Louis raises an eyebrow. “Why d’you think this place is still in livable condition?”

“Liam’s family manages the supply store down in the northern valley,” Harry says after throwing Louis a look. “And he’s been managing the upkeep of the cabin over the past few years. That’s why I asked him to take me here.”

Louis raises his hand. “And I provide the transportation. We’re a team.” He nudges Liam in the side, and when he doesn’t respond, Louis continues.  “Sweet gig, just housesitting an abandoned cabin a few times a year. We’ve thrown quite some parties here over the years, haven’t we, Liam?” He claps Liam on the shoulder. Liam looks mortified.

“Oh,” Zayn nods. “Well, thank you for taking care of Harry, and this place.” He looks between Louis and Liam. “I didn’t know anyone still cared for it after all of this time. It looks good. It looks just like I remember.”

“You’re welcome,” Liam says curtly. “Well, we should probably go.” He glances out the window nervously and turns to Louis.

Zayn frowns. He supposes he should have expected Liam would want nothing to do with him, after everything. It hurts, though, more than he thought.

Louis raises an eyebrow and peers out the window. “It’s dusk, and it looks like a storm is coming,” he says matter-of-factly.

Zayn steps in. “You can stay for the night, of course. You can take one of the bedrooms,” he adds smoothly. “There’s one upstairs – “

“I know.” Louis interrupts.

“Of course.”

Liam looks at Louis, and when he doesn’t speak, he elbows his side. “Louis, we can’t stay here,” Liam says urgently. “We have to go home.”

“What do you expect we do, Leeyum? Fly out into the dark and hope we land at home? Hey, maybe we can shout really loud, let an avalanche carry us back.” Louis snorts.

“We don’t get avalanches here,” Zayn provides helpfully, automatically. The last avalanche anywhere in the kingdom was years ago, in the mountains of the Eastern province.

“Thanks,” Louis snorts.

“But – “ Liam whines. “We can’t just stay. I have to get back.”

“Liam. Relax, We can go back tomorrow.”

“But – “

“I’m not going out in this, and Rufus isn’t going out in this. So you’re not going out in this,” Louis says with finality.

And that’s how Zayn finds himself in the company of three people more than he expected, eating stew around the small dining table across from Liam, who looks as uncomfortable as possible.

Louis makes no effort to hide his disdain for them. Zayn doesn’t blame him, he supposes. It’s not his fault he’s had to grow up in a place so isolated and lawless as Doncaster; it’s natural to resent them. Zayn understands. Figuring out how to reincorporate towns like Doncaster is – no, _was –_ on the top of his list of priorities. So Zayn doesn’t react at Louis’ forwardness. In fact, it’s almost refreshing compared to the attitudes he’s been accustomed to in the castle, where people tiptoe around him in fear. At least Louis is honest.

Harry, however, is another story entirely. He fights back, is the thing, and they’re arguing all through supper about basic facts, opinions, and even what to call him. Zayn and Harry usually shed the formalities around friends, but Harry clearly does not see Louis as a friend.

“Harry - “

“Prince Harold,” Harry corrects petulantly.

“She calls you Harry,” Louis says, pointing to Zayn. “Maybe you’d prefer Your Magnanimous-ness? Your Haughtiness?”

“She’s my _sister,_ ” Harry says sourly. “You don’t get to call me that. “

“Okay, Harry.”

“ _Louis –_ “ Liam warns.

“Harry, come on,” Zayn says quietly. He doesn’t know why Harry is acting like this, but it’s certainly not making anything better. “Drop it.” Harry falls silent, but he pointedly glares at Louis as he chews his food loudly. They regard each other in frosty silence for a beat.

“And what – what should we call you?” Liam asks meekly, barely making eye contact, even though Zayn is sitting right in front of him. “Your Highness, or – Your Majesty?”

“Just Z,” Zayn mumbles. “Is fine.”

“See, that’s not so hard,” Louis says with pleasant surprise. “Z. Who’d have thought that only _one_ of you was born with a silver spoon in their – “

“Louis!” Liam kicks him beneath the table.  

“Ow! I’m just saying.”

They chew their food in merciful silence for a few minutes before Louis pipes up again.

“So, Z. What brought you here, anyway?” Louis rubs his hands together. “I thought you had some kind of coronation party yesterday. Sick of the job already?”

When Zayn doesn’t answer right away, Harry does. “It was my fault. I accidentally, um. Caused a scene during the coronation,” he provides. “Well, I got a little hotheaded, after I got engaged, and Z wouldn’t give her blessing.”

“Ooh,” Louis smirks. “Scandalous relationship?”

“No,” Harry glares. “It was just a bit too soon to plan the wedding, plus I’d only just met him – I mean, I know it’s true love, but I understand –”

“Wait a second,” Louis interrupts. “Just met? How long do you need to know each other for you to already know it’s true love?”

“Well, actually,” Harry says smoothly, “we met yesterday. I ran into him at the party – well, literally. I tripped, and he caught me. And I looked up and I just _knew_ , you know? He's the one. My soul mate.” He sighs, swooning. It’s actually kind of cute. Zayn has never really gotten to see this side of his little brother.

But Louis actually laughs. “Wait, you’re serious. A guy you just met _yesterday,_ ” he repeats.

“Yep,” Harry replies happily, Louis’ disbelief seemingly lost on him.

“But you don’t even know him!”

“Yes I do,” Harry says.

“Oh yeah? What’s his favorite color?”

“B-green,” he says, faltering for a moment.

“You don’t even know that!” Louis crows.

“Yes I do.”

“ _Buhgreen_ , right.” Louis snorts. “My favorite color too.”

“I don’t – “ Harry flushes angrily. “His favorite color doesn’t matter. What matters is I know his soul. I know it’s _true love._ ”

“But you just met him!” Louis starts laughing at him again. “Do you even know a thing about his family? His best friend? His favorite _food_?”

“Shut up.”

“What if his favorite food is – carrots dipped in _lard_ , or oyster-flavored rock candy?”

Liam puts a hand on his arm. “Louis – “

“What if his favorite color is _burgundy_?” Louis taunts.

“Louis!” Liam glares.

“What if he brushes his teeth with pickled beet juice?” Louis cackles.

“You’re just jealous,” Harry declares. “Because you’ve never had this kind of love.“

Louis laughs. “The kind of love that happens after an hour. Right, yep, I’m really missing out.”

Gratefully, Harry’s reply is halted by a particularly loud gust of wind outside.

“So.” Zayn sighs, taking the opportunity to attempt to defuse the situation. “The weather is sounding pretty bad. “ Over the course of dinner, the wind has become louder, growing into a constant dull roar through the trees outside.

“I should go check on Rufus,” Louis says, jumping up and grabbing his lantern.

“Rufus?”

“My reindeer,” Louis supplies. “She’s the one that brought us here.”

“Oh, right.” She must be the reindeer that Zayn has heard about over the years. “Well, you’re free to use the stables,” Zayn offers. Louis is already opening the side door, letting in a cold burst of air.

“I know,” Louis calls back.

Liam lowers his face into his hands.

Harry rises from his chair. “I’m going to go to be, then,” he says, and Zayn is thankful that he’s leaving before Louis returns. He wonders, briefly, if Liam might stay here with him, if they might have the chance to talk. But Liam stands up too.

“Yeah, me too.”

“I’ll show you your room,” Harry nods. Liam doesn’t look back at Zayn as he trails Harry up the stairs. “G’night.”

“Goodnight,” Zayn mumbles.

 

 

 

“The door won’t open,” Louis informs him the next morning. The front door has seemingly become a solid sheet of ice overnight, and when they finally manage to open it minutes later, the snow on the other side is already piled up nearly as high as his boots.

The storm has only worsened over the past eight hours. The wind and sleet had grown so loud that Zayn had woken up a few times in the night to the sounds of ice pellets pelting at the windows. The temperature must have dropped, because now it’s snowing, with large snowflakes swirling so thick in the air that he can’t even make out the closest tree a few meters outside the cabin.

Louis and Liam aren’t going anywhere soon.

Louis seems unconcerned, and he putters through the pantries for food while Zayn rekindles the furnace. His back aches, and he stands and stretches, catching movement on the stairs from the corner of his eye.

If Zayn was lovesick before, nothing prepared him for seeing Liam sleepy in the morning, fluffy-haired and yawning with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Liam stops and peers out the window, wrinkling his nose.

“It’s snowing hard out there,” Zayn says, trying not to stare.

“Yeah.” Liam gulps and doesn’t look up. He still hasn’t looked at Zayn or said more than a few words.

“Looks like we’re stranded,” Louis agrees pleasantly. Liam nods with resignation. “So,” Louis looks between them, “what’s for breakfast?”

“We didn’t bring much,” Liam says quietly, apologetically.

“Hey,” Harry opens the door of his room, rubbing his eyes from the doorway. When his sight sets on Louis, he scowls.

The feeling, clearly, is mutual. “We were just discussing what food to make for breakfast. Ours is rather plebian, nothing like what you’re used to, I’m sure,” Louis says mockingly. Harry frowns like a grumpy kitten.

“There isn’t much of anything,” Liam says.

“So sorry, your Highness.” Louis adds, voice twisted. Harry glares. Louis smirks.

Harry steps to the pantry and knits his brow as he takes inventory. “We have honey and flour,” he hums. “And beans,” he confirms, setting each item down on the counter.

“We are _not_ baking for you –”

“He never said you were,” Zayn manages to croak out, his voice hoarse. He clears his throat. Louis whips his head around in surprise. “Harry’s a good cook,” Zayn continues. Louis raises a skeptical eyebrow.

“What, you don’t believe her?”

“If I’m honest? No.”

“I’ll show you,” Harry grumbles.

If nothing else good comes of this situation, at least Zayn gets a delicious meal out of it. Strictly speaking, Harry goes a bit overboard with the cake, sweetened with honey and dusted with cocoa powder that must be so old their cook would blanche at the thought of it, but tastes as good as new. Louis remains begrudgingly silent through breakfast, even as Liam enthusiastically praises Harry’s cooking. Harry beams, smug.

They spend the remainder of the day indoors trying to keep entertained. Zayn reads and draws and stares out the window; Liam brings out a card game, and they play a few rounds until Harry and Louis start bickering over the rules. After Zayn checks on his horse in the stables, they eat another awkward meal together. Harry pointedly asks Liam polite questions about himself, his life and the store, questions that Zayn already knows all the answers to.

Liam regards Zayn with quiet, tiptoeing around him and saying little more than ‘thank you,’ moving aside so they don’t brush shoulders when they pass by each other. It’s fine. It’s nothing, and it always has been nothing. And even if it hadn’t, Liam would want nothing to do with him now that he knows what kind of mess Zayn is, a failed queen who abandoned the throne. He’s probably humiliated to have ever been friends with him.

When he thinks about Liam, Zayn has so much confusion running in his veins. He loves Liam – _loved_ Liam, maybe, and now Liam can’t even bear to look at him. But the truth is that Liam doesn’t love him, never loved him. Liam never even knew him.

More than anything, Zayn just wishes he could clear his mind, and it’s not only Liam. He’s trying to separate all the parts of himself now that he’s here and finally has time for himself. But somehow it’s all just making him _more_ confused.

He’s always been this way, and he’s survived. He’s always been vaguely uncomfortable in his skin, sure, but he can deflect, has always been able to deflect because that was his job, and everyone has to make sacrifices. But now, he doesn’t even have a job. He doesn’t have any reason to pretend, for the first time in – forever. And he doesn’t know what to do with that.

The next morning, the snow is still falling thick in the sky. The cabin is silent when Zayn wakes up, and he bundles in his coat and pulls a scarf down over his face before going out to check on his horse. The stable is enclosed and stays warm, especially with two animals in it, but he still worries. Fortunately, the side door where the house is connected to the stable is protected by a narrow awning, and it hasn’t been as affected by the half-meter snow they’ve received.

When he opens the stable door and steps inside from the cold, he realizes, immediately, that he’s not alone.

Midnight is munching some remaining hay from her trough, and beside her, in the second stall, Liam is leaning back feeding a carrot to one of the largest reindeer Zayn has ever seen.

“Is this Rufus?” Zayn asks softly. Liam turns around, startled.

“Your – Your Highness,” he stammers.

“You don’t have to call me that.”

Liam nods twice and turns to the reindeer. She nuzzles into his hand, and he scratches her nose. “Yeah. This is Rufus.”

“She’s huge.”

“Louis fed her too many sweets when she was a baby,” he chuckles. “She was so tiny when he found her.” He holds out his hands, measuring smaller than the size of her head now. “She’s a sweetheart, though. Charms you for carrots.” He pats her nose again.

“I remember you telling me about her.” Zayn steps closer. “Can I?” Liam nods, stepping back, and Zayn grabs a carrot. She scarfs it down and pushes on Zayn’s other fist for more, and she snorts when he opens an empty hand. She sticks out her tongue and licks his hand, and he laughs.

Midnight pokes her head over the divider curiously. “This is Midnight,” Zayn says, moving over to scratch her cheek. “She’s one of my favorites.” She’s a sturdy pack horse, one of their largest and bravest, but also one of the gentlest. She nickers, and he grabs a carrot for her, too.

Liam nods. “So you’re not – I mean, of course not,” he corrects himself. “I always assumed you were a stable hand or something.”

It’s the first time Liam has acknowledged them as they once were, and it stuns him momentarily. “No.” He shakes his head. “But I’ve always loved the horses. I had to beg my parents to let me take riding lessons.”

“Right.” Liam grimaces. “Well. I’ll leave you to it.” He carefully steps past him and out the door.

Zayn swallows. Liam must regret everything. He must hate him. Or maybe he just thinks Zayn’s a snob, too; Louis certainly hasn’t hidden his derision. Maybe Liam is just more polite about it.

Zayn idly pats Midnight’s nose again, and she heaves in a mighty sigh. “Me too,” Zayn tells her, sneaking her one more carrot.

The snow shows no signs of letting up, so Zayn eventually resigns himself to another long day stuck in the cabin.

He naps and reads in his bedroom for another couple of hours. After he finishes both books he brought, he wades into the card game they’ve started in the main area, the three of them slapping cards on the table one at a time.

“This game is rigged against me,” Harry complains when he loses for the fourth time in a row.

“Must be hard to not be at the top, for once,” Louis quips.

“That’s not – “ Harry huffs.

“I’m going to get a victory snack,” Louis chirps as he rises to the kitchen. He rummages through the icebox for the leftovers of yesterday’s cake. “Anyone want anything?”

“I would, actually,” Harry says as he stands up to excuse himself to the loo.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Harry says with surprise, head whipping around.

“You made it,” Louis shrugs as he grabs the flimsy knife to cut it. Liam meets Zayn’s eyes for a split-second, one eyebrow shooting up, and Zayn shrugs. At least Liam actually looks at him now on occasion, if only with fleeting glances. That’s new.

When Harry leaves, Zayn turns to Liam and says lowly, “I give it three minutes before they start fighting again.” Liam actually giggles.

After a few more games, Harry and Zayn team up to thwart the others. When Louis and Liam catch on, they do the same, and it becomes a shifting battle of alliances.

“How long have you two known each other?” Harry asks a few games later, when Louis and Liam are sitting across from them by the fire.

“We were neighbors when we were young,” Liam says. “We used to play in the creek behind our houses. Louis shared his sandwich with me one day, and that was it.” He smiles.

“And then we found Rufus.” Louis adds. “Behind the river behind town. She was all alone when we first spotted her, and she was just – pitiful. Could hardly stand on her own, and her mum was nowhere to be seen.”

“Louis distracted my parents while I stole some milk,” Liam grimaces. “And we fed her and brought her back home and hid her.”

“How do you hide a reindeer?” Zayn wonders.

“Under the bed,” Liam answers immediately. “Which wasn’t very effective. We tried to keep her in the woods, but she kept following us everywhere, so I snuck her inside.”

“Remember when your parents found out?” Louis laughs. “They freaked out. A reindeer in the house!”

“Louis’ mum said we could build a pen and keep her right outside their house, if we let her go wild after a while. But she never did. And then Louis taught her to pull the sleigh, and she really became part of the family. Before he moved,” he adds.

Finally, just as the afternoon sunlight begins waning, the snow starts to let up. At first, Zayn realizes he can see the stable out the bedroom window; then, the trees surrounding the hill become visible. When Harry notices him staring out the window, he comes to join them.

“When do you think we can go back?” Harry asks absently. He’s been making comments like that all day, little things about when they go back and plans for the future. Zayn takes a sharp breath.

“I’m not going back,” he says matter-of-factly.

“What?”

“I’m not going back,” Zayn repeats. “I’m sick of living that life. I told you. I can’t – I’m not doing it.”

“But they need you. We need you.”

“No, you don’t.” He tries to unclench his jaw. “You’re going home. You and Grandma, you can figure out what to do. And – don’t tell anyone I’m here.”

“I don’t understand.”

“When the storm lets up, you need to leave. I don’t.”

“But I thought things had changed. Between us.”

Zayn shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters! You’re my sister –”

“Harry, I’m not going back,” he says simply. He can’t take it anymore. He can’t think about it. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.” He rubs his head. “Please. Just go away.”

“You’re pushing me away again,” Harry declares. “Just like you always do.”

“No I don’t - “

“Yes you do.” Harry’s throat sounds constricted as he backs away. “Just like after mum and dad died, and you wouldn’t even talk to me” – he pauses, staring at Zayn, watery-eyed, until Zayn averts his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Zayn says. There’s nothing more he can say.

 

❄ _11_ ❄

“Love, it’s time for your fitting.”

 _Fitting._ If one word can strike fear in his heart, it’s that one. Even though he’s been doing it multiple times a year since he was born, it only ever feels worse each time.

When he would throw tantrums as a child, his parents used to tell him that he’d grow into it. But if anything, it’s the opposite, especially now that everything is changing.

It’s just – they want him to wear powder on his face and color around his eyes.  They want him to wear things that look more like what his mother wears, instead of the comfortable tunics he and Harry always wore as children.

Now that he’s older, people are beginning to actually spare more than a glance to him on the sidelines. The idea of standing there, wearing _that_ , with everyone looking at him, makes his skin crawl.

It’s not just about _clothes,_ though. He feels like they’re trying to shove him into his mother’s shoes, and he just doesn’t think he can become like her. They say he’ll be a great leader like she is, and he knows they may well be right, that he’ll grow into the responsibility. It’s not being a leader, not the responsibility that has him in a cold sweat at night when he imagines being the Queen. It’s something else.

It’s something about how, when he allows himself to think about it, he doesn’t think he’ll grow up to be like her. He doesn’t see himself in her. If anything, he sees more of himself in his father.

He looks more like his father, to start. He has dark hair and dark eyes, olive-tinted skin. They have the same smile. And more than that, he feels more like his father, although he can’t pinpoint exactly _how_.

He can’t explain it, why he finds it so hard to fit into their mold of what he should be. He tries to grow into his role obediently. If he can do it right, he reasons, maybe he’ll start feeling like a princess, like a young _woman._

They’ve started calling him that, a young woman. He doesn’t know why it causes him to cringe; it’s true, right?

The other girls in the castle don’t seem to have any problem with it. But despite his mother’s insistence, Zayn just doesn’t fit in with them. He doesn’t want to squeal about boys, or do their hair or makeup; they stopped inviting him to play with them a long time ago, anyway. Harry, too, has stopped asking him to play soldiers or hide-and-seek, preferring to spend his time with other boys around the castle. It’s fine. Aside from the rare occasions when he sees Liam, Zayn would rather spend his free time alone anyway, in his room or in the library or in one of his hiding places outside, drawing or reading or just thinking.

“Zanirah. Come for your fitting,” his mother says more sharply. “We were meant to depart an hour ago.”

He glares out the window. From here, he can see the edge of the sea, the distant ship that will take his parents away on their trip for the next week and a half.

He pulls down the sleeves of the too-big jumper he’s wearing. He likes clothes that swallow him up. His mum hates them. He sighs and reluctantly pulls it up over his head, tossing it aside before stalking down into the dressing room, where his mother is waiting for him with the frilled, lavender gown he is to wear for the Summer ball.

“Caroline will be here in a moment. I spoke with her this morning about fitting you. You don’t fill it out, so she will need to do some tailoring, and you will need to try it on again before we return –”

“Why?” Zayn says, jutting out his lip, even though he very well knows why.

“Because we have a ball three days after we return, and you need something to wear.”

“I don’t want to,” he tries. “Why can’t I just wear something else?”

He hates balls. And he especially hates this gown. He looks at himself in the mirror and tries to imagine wearing it and standing up in front of all of the people. It makes him feel like a clown, like one of the jesters that dresses up in silly colors and performs for crowds on Fool’s day – only, no one is in on the joke except for him.

“Zanirah, you are not wearing trousers to the ball.”

“Call me Z,” he reminds her petulantly, and she levels him with an impassive look. “And that’s not what I mean.” He takes a breath and schools his voice to be higher, more polite. “Can’t I wear something else?” he tries. This gown they chose is particularly hideous, all frills on the bottom and lacy and low-cut on the top. “I could wear the black evening dress, the one I was going to wear for my birthday last year,” he implores.

His mother snorts. “That was a play dress, a dress you would wear to your lessons. This is a ball, and you need appropriate attire that flatters your figure.”

He doesn’t want to flatter his figure. He doesn’t want any of this. “Then something _like_ that,” he begs.

“I already spoke with Caroline. You’re wearing this gown, and that’s final,” she says severely. “I told Caroline to expect you again the morning after tomorrow.”

“But –” If only they could talk to Caroline, then they would have time to pick something else.

“No,” she says with finality.

He sets his jaw, suddenly seething. He hates this. “I hate you.”

Something flickers in her eyes for a moment. It’s fleeting, but Zayn will never forget the look. It flashes across her face – hurt, disappointment – before disappearing again, replaced by the same expression of impassivity.

“Very well, but you still need to wear what is appropriate. I don’t understand why you don’t like the clothing that looks good on you. You’re so pretty, and yet you insist on wearing rags – “

There’s too much going on in his head, and he blocks out the sounds. If only he were someone else, somewhere else.

“– now come and say goodbye to your father – “

“I hate you!” Zayn turns on his heel and slams the door shut.

It’s the last time he ever sees his parents. The ship never returns. The ball is cancelled.

 

 

 

The nanny tells him and Harry together. There was a storm. They didn’t notice the iceberg until the ship was already torn in two.

They weren’t paying attention. They weren’t looking, because they were distracted. They left too late and sailed directly into a storm. They were late and distracted because of _him._

It’s his fault. If he hadn’t gotten so upset with them, if they hadn’t fought like that, then maybe they would have noticed the storm. If their minds hadn’t been occupied with how much of a mistake and a failure their child – their _heir_ – was, then maybe they would have noticed that the navigator had left his post and the assistant hadn’t been awoken to take his place. Or maybe they would have woken up earlier and noticed the increasing winds, seen the lightning on the dark horizon.

But they didn’t.

Zayn sits with his back against his bedroom door for hours, for days. He clutches his knees to his chest and cries.

“Z?” Harry sounds tiny behind the door, his voice broken and nasally, like he’s been crying too. Zayn stops crying at once. He remains motionless. He can’t bear to face him.

What would Harry think if he knew? What if he already knows?

What if Zayn has the same effect on him?

He stays silent and motionless as Harry calls his name again. He prays Harry will think he’s sleeping. Eventually, Harry leaves.

What else can Zayn do?

Zayn pulls away from everything else in his life and focuses on becoming the best Queen he can be. Now, everything rests on his shoulders.

He memorizes the trade agreements, the goods and services produced by each province, the important places and figures, past and present, in the history of the kingdom. He sits in on every meeting, where the representatives delegate roles to the appropriate people before signing off on trade agreements within the kingdom or with outside kingdoms.

He practices logic skills, solves puzzles until his eyes hurt. He studies maths until he can do instantaneously, in his head, without even thinking. He pushes his interest in art and music to his rare moments of downtime, and even then he focuses on the parts of history and culture most useful for his future.

He doesn’t walk right, so he practices with the tutors until he can do it, until he moves in smooth, graceful steps with his shoulders back and chin up. Speaking class is better; although he’s always been shy, he grows accustomed to it quickly, learns to enunciate and stop mumbling. He learns to use the correct volume for a room, to speak from his chest, to stand with poise and confidence; and he learns to write, too. By the time he’s twelve years old, and the students in Harry’s school are still stumbling through pageants and learning vocabulary, he’s writing out and delivering speeches on law and history that could rival any of the tutors.

Still, nothing he does is ever quite enough to stop the haunting. He knows nothing can bring them back. He remembers, every moment of every day, that nothing he does will ever be enough.

 

 ❄ _20_ ❄

Zayn can’t sleep. Harry’s words reverberate in his ears, alongside his own words said so many years ago. He can still see that look on his mother’s face. The last glimpse of his father as Zayn slammed the door shut.

He’s not going back. Harry can; he must. And Louis and Liam, too, will need to return to their lives and their homes. But Zayn is staying right here.

He can’t sleep now. He pulls on the sheepskin coat and a second, thicker pair of trousers, and silently creeps out the side door with his lantern. He carefully, quietly climbs up the side of the cabin and up to the roof, brushing off a patch of snow to sit down.

The storm has passed, and the sky is clear enough in places that he can see the stars. The faint green halo of an aurora is visible above, and he hopes it will grow as he lies here trying to map out the stars. The wind has stopped, the night air giving way to the sounds of cicadas and the occasional owl.

Then, he hears another noise. He sits up. The scraping of footsteps sounds up the side of the house, and in the dim lantern light he watches Liam emerge onto the roof.

“I thought I heard something,” Liam says. “And I saw your door was open.”

“Yeah,” Zayn says. “Sorry.” He swallows. Liam hovers at the other end of the roof, and after a pause, Zayn uses his arm to clear the snow next to him and scoots over. A moment later, Liam sits down beside him, legs pulled to his chest.

“Are you okay?” Liam asks. “You seemed quiet during supper tonight.”

“Yeah,” Zayn lies. “Fine.” Liam doesn’t respond. Zayn wants it to be a comfortable silence, like they’re used to, like nothing has changed. But of course, it has.

Zayn lies back down against the gentle slope of the roof, and after a moment, Liam does the same. “Looks like there might be a light show tonight,” Zayn remarks, gesturing upwards. The light of the aurora has become brighter, rich bands of aqua-green growing across the expanse of the black sky.

 

 

Liam hums. “I haven’t seen an aurora for a long time.”

“Neither have I.”

They lie in silence, watching as the green edges slowly fade into bright white. A faint pink glow appears to the side.

“I used to watch it from the castle when I was a kid.” Zayn swallows, remembering how he used to watch, and wait, and wish on stars, wishing for – something. For things to be different. “I’d sneak up to one of the towers, where there was a clear view.”

“So did I,” Liam offers. “I mean, not from – not from a tower, or anything.” His hands fidget in his lap. “But from the top roof of my house. My sisters and I used to go up there whenever we saw light out the window.”

“I wonder if we ever saw the same one,” Zayn muses.

The light ebbs and flows slowly across the sky, the stars hiding and emerging from beneath the streams of orange and violet and blue and green. Zayn glances sideways. Between the light in the sky and the dim yellow lantern light, Zayn can barely make out the details of Liam’s face. He wishes he could just reach out and touch him.

Zayn looks down. His feet jiggle against the edge of the roof as if to tap on distant treetops. He forces a breath. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. About me.” Liam remains silent, and Zayn watches his chest rise and fall. “Are you mad at me?” he asks finally.

“Mad?” Liam asks. “No.” He pauses, turning his head toward Zayn. “I wondered if maybe – if you thought I was a chump.” He grimaces. “If you didn’t want me to know because I didn’t matter. I’m just me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m nothing special, you know? I work at a supply shop. I’m not nobility or royalty, like you. I’m not important.”

“That doesn’t matter. And it’s not true.” Zayn shakes his head, choosing his words carefully. “You’ve been one of the most important people in my life – my best friend, really.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?”

Zayn swallows as Liam’s words hang in the air laced with pain. “It wasn’t you. It was – I just wanted to be able to be me, without the baggage. Without you thinking differently of me.”

Something like hurt flashes in Liam’s eyes. “I wouldn’t have thought any different of you.”

“I know,” Zayn says quickly. He’s doing this all wrong. “I just mean, you let me be myself.” The light fades blue across the sky. “When we met, I had never really had a friend before. I was different. Around the castle or when I went to school, the kids around never really treated me like a normal person. Or they did, but then they asked for a favor, like they only wanted to be my friend to get what they wanted.”

“I’m sorry,” Liam says genuinely. “That sounds awful.”

He runs a hand over his head. “It’s a lot of pressure,” he concedes. “I know I shouldn’t complain. It’s nothing compared to, like, being an ice-miner or something, but.” He sighs. “It felt good to just get away and get to be me for once, you know? Not some royalty, not a figurehead or an icon or someone with some kind of _power_. Just a normal person.”

“I’ve never had many friends either. Louis is like my brother, but he moved away when I was young, and I had to help at the shop most days anyway. I used to count down to the winters when I could come to town and see you.” He pauses and looks away suddenly. “Sorry, I don’t mean – I just mean when I was a kid –“

“I did too,” Zayn interrupts. “Sometimes I’d wait for you all day, just in case.”

“Yeah.” Liam mumbles. He doesn’t respond after that.

The light is slowly shrinking now, the bands fading into pale streaks. Then it’s gone, disappeared into the night sky and leaving only stars behind.

Liam yawns and sits up slowly. “Maybe we should get to sleep,” he says softly as he dusts off his trousers.

“Yeah.” Zayn rises, and they climb down off the roof and back into the cabin. Once back inside, they stand in near-darkness, illuminated only by his lantern’s light.

Liam swallows; Zayn watches the silhouette of his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. Zayn’s hand moves to his neck subconsciously.

“Well, goodnight,” Liam says finally. He turns to walk up to his room.

“Goodnight,” Zayn nods, hand still pressed to his neck.

 

 

 

Zayn startles awake to the sound of a terrible screeching coming from the wall just outside his bedroom window. When he looks outside, he comes face to face with – well, a face. A big, brown, furry face. Rufus (at least, he hopes it’s Rufus) eyes him unblinkingly through the window for a moment, snorting breath fogging up the glass before she turns away, dragging her antler on the side of the outside of the wall with a _screech_.

“What’s going on?” Zayn asks when he gets outside. Louis is standing to the side of the porch, his cheeks red and his legs dusted with snow. In front of the cabin, Rufus is prancing through the snow. The powder nearly comes up to her belly in some places, but she doesn’t seem to care as she forges zig-zag paths across the yard.

“I think she’s glad to not be stuck inside anymore,” Louis laughs. He cranes his neck up to the blue sky. “I can’t say I disagree.”

“Hey,” Liam’s voice comes from the doorway. “Oh – are we leaving already?” Zayn detects a hint of a frown in his voice.

“With this much snow, the route is impassable,” Louis says bluntly. “If we leave now, she’ll break a hoof or faint halfway down from exhaustion. We’ll need to wait a few days until it melts.” The powder is thick, but it’s already wet in some places where the sun is hitting it, and at this time of year the weather will likely only get warmer.

Liam doesn’t protest this time.

Rufus suddenly notices him in the doorway, and she barrels toward them. “Whoa!” Zayn steps aside to avoid an antler in the face. She really is huge, her head nearly as tall as his. Liam scratches her cheek and laughs. She sniffs at his hand until he helplessly produces a carrot.

Zayn pats the velvety fur on her nose and she snuffs for more carrots and eventually returns to Louis, who scratches behind her antlers. “I’m glad you’re staying,” Zayn says finally, quietly. Liam’s cheeks redden – or maybe it’s just the cold.

Harry emerges outside just as Rufus ambles away. The four of them stand around the porch watching as she starts running around the yard again, stopping briefly to chew bits of bark off of trees. She lopes from person to person snuffling for food, her legs splaying in the snow.

“Glad to be free,” Louis laughs. She comes to a sudden stop and gives Louis’ face a long, wet lick. “Ew!”

Harry giggles, loudly.

“Oh, you think it’s funny.” Louis turns around and raises an eyebrow. He taps Rufus’ antler and points up at Harry. “You know,” he tells her, “Harry’s hair is looking suspiciously curly this morning, and I think it might be hiding some delicious food for you. Go get ‘im.” She prances toward him, snuffles at his messy curls, and then licks his forehead, too. He laughs helplessly as she corners him up against the wall licking his face. Liam grabs her around the neck in a hug.

“Don’t worry. She’s a big lapdog.” Liam shakes his head, stepping over to guide her away from Harry.

Satisfied that none of them are hiding any food, she paws at the ground and yanks up something green to chew. She begins walking around them with her nose to the snow, rooting for more food.

Zayn leaves them to tend to his horse in the stable. He walks her around the stable a few times; he feels guilty, but the stable is relatively spacious, at least, and he’ll take her out more when the snow melts a bit.

When he gets outside again, Louis is holding some shovels. “C’mon,” he waves. “We’re clearing out a football pitch.” Zayn doesn’t know where the ball came from, but his muscles ache for some real activity after being stuck inside for two days. “Z. You’re on my team,” Louis says sharply.

“That’s not fair,” Liam complains. “You two are good.”

“How do you know?” Louis asks.

“I’ve only beaten him a hundred times,” Zayn answers, bragging all in good fun. To be honest, they’re pretty evenly matched. Zayn is faster, but Liam certainly has more practice.

Harry looks between them curiously. “You’ve met before?” Louis raises an eyebrow.

Zayn looks at Liam, who suddenly sets his eyes downwards. “Yes,” Liam mumbles, barely audible.

“Liam showed up when I was playing behind the castle one time, as a kid.” Zayn clarifies. “And we just – we started hanging out occasionally. When he passed through.” He shrugs and swallows. “But he didn’t know who I was, or anything.” he adds. “I never told him.”

“So you were, what, nine?” Louis’ eyes widen with some sort of recognition, and he grins. Liam gives him a look. Louis grins wider.

“What?” Harry looks between them.

“Oh, nothing,” Louis says loudly, still grinning. “Hey, you’re right. You two should be on the same team. Harry, come on.” Harry’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, but he trots to Louis’ side anyway.

It’s not much of a match, since the goalposts are trees, they all trip in the deep snow at least a few times, and Rufus barrels through at one point and attempts to eat the ball.

Maybe it’s just the fact that they’re free after the days of being cooped up in the cabin, but everyone is in a better mood for the entire day. Harry and Louis don’t even bicker much, despite the fact that Harry’s not really an asset as a football partner. In fact, they even seem to be getting along through supper, laughing at each other’s jokes and sharing food. He doesn’t know when it happened, but it’s like they’re friends all of a sudden. Even their squabbles seem in good fun.

“What d’you think is going on with them?” Zayn whispers, nodding his chin in their direction.

“Beats me,” Liam shrugs. “Maybe Lou finally stopped being a dick.”

Zayn watches curiously from behind the counter. Liam steps closer.

“Swear you won’t say anything,” Liam whispers closely, “but I think it may be because Harry is exactly his type. Tall, and the hair and the boyish face – yeah.”

“Wait,” Zayn says with an arched eyebrow. “You’re suggesting he’s been rude to him because he likes him? How old is he?”

“Twenty-one going on five, last time I checked,” Liam giggles. “Look.”

They’re squabbling over how to wash the pots, and an indignant Harry turns his back. Sure enough, Louis’ gaze lingers for just a moment too long.

“I swear he’s a child.” Liam shakes his head. Zayn giggles. It feels like they’re kids again.

Louis finally throws up his hands. “Fine,” he shouts loudly. “You’d better enjoy this, because you’re gonna be washing pots of beet juice and liver ‘til death do you part.”

Harry doesn’t even respond.

“Is that – “ Liam clears his throat. “I mean, do you do things like that? Don’t you have, like, servants?”

“We – well, the castle,” he corrects himself, “has a kitchen staff. And maids, of course, and butlers. They handle everything for big meals. Everyone always loved Harry, though. He’s always liked to help out. It’s how he got to be such a good cook.”

“I bet they loved you, too,” Liam smiles.

Zayn swallows. “Not like Harry.” No one ever knew what to do with Zayn. He just wasn’t cute and loveable and carefree and _normal_ like Harry was, and he always knew it.

Liam turns to him, suddenly shy. “I always imagined you were living this dreary life as a servant child, that you had to sneak away and risk getting in trouble.”

“There are no servant children,” Zayn says, clicking his tongue. “I mean, the butlers and the rest of the staff have children, but they still get to be normal kids, for the most part.”

“But you said you didn’t go to school.”

He lowers his head. “Harry did, when he was young. I had tutors,” he says. “So do the other kids around the castle, the ones who couldn’t go to school in town.”

“It’s easier for their parents,” Harry pipes up as he and Louis join them by the fire, apparently having overheard the conversation. “We had writing tutors with some of the other kids.”

“Oh,” Liam says. “Okay. Sorry.”

“It’s okay.“ Zayn scratches his neck. “I know it’s hard to wrap your head around. It’s – ornate. It can be a lot. But it’s not that different. It wasn’t so bad all the time.”

Liam pauses for a moment before looking up. “Why did you leave?”

Zayn shrugs, stiffening.

Louis steps in. “You never said what happened.”

Zayn and Harry make eye contact. Harry ducks. “I tripped and kind of pulled off her hair.”

“Ouch.”

“Extensions,” Zayn speaks up. “I – it was too short, so I had extensions put in, and they came off – it was a mess.” He swallows.

“A queen with short hair?” Louis mock-gasps. “Sounds like a major scandal. I’m not sure how the kingdom will ever survive such a thing.” He rolls his eyes. Harry kicks him in the foot.

“That’s not all it was –“ Zayn shakes his head. “Nevermind.”

Later, after the others go to bed, Liam clears his throat. “I’m really sorry. It was all my fault.” Liam winces and looks up. “Your hair. And all of this.”

“It’s not your fault. I like it,” Zayn says before catching himself. “I mean, I told you to.”

Liam’s expression softens. “Still, I’m sorry. It wasn’t my place. I never would have if I’d known – “ He exhales.

“I know.”

“I like it too. I mean, I’m sure I didn’t do a very good job to start with.”

“Yeah, my – erm, stylist did her thing with it, though.”

“Right.” Liam looks away. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I was really drunk. I barely even remember anything.”

 _Anything_. So does Liam even remember what happened afterwards? Or does he want to forget?

“Oh.” He swallows. “Yeah, me too. I don’t really, either,” Zayn says. “I didn’t even know about my hair until I saw it in the mirror the next morning.” He forces a smile, and Liam grins back, the smile not quite reaching his eyes.

He wishes they could just go back to normal. In some ways they are, but they’re also not. Normal is the little touches and jokes and words and just being together, wordlessly.

Normal is Zayn pining over him every moment, and then pulling back because it’s not okay, not reciprocated; because his skin doesn’t fit, and even if it did, their lives don’t fit.

Normal, the last normal they had, is kissing in the snow. And they’re not doing that.

“How did I not know? I should have realized.” Liam shakes his head. It always comes back to this.

“I didn’t want you to,” Zayn answers.

“But I still – I should have recognized you.”

“We were children. I didn’t make many public appearances. And I didn’t make any for years, after - ”

Liam’s eyes widen. “You – oh, god, your parents. I’m so sorry.”

“You came over the day after the funeral,” he says, his throat threatening to constrict.

“I didn’t know,” Liam says. “I should have known. I would have gone - my family would have gone to pay our respects. But we had the store.“ He looks down. “I’m really sorry. I wish I could have done something.”

“You did.” _You were there_ , Zayn wants to say. When he couldn’t be around anyone else, when he didn’t even want to be around himself, Liam was there, treating him like normal. He still doesn’t know what he would have done without that thread of hope for a few precious hours with Liam, with a person who didn’t know the truth.

“I wish I had recognized you,” Liam says again.

Zayn sighs. “You wouldn’t. The way you saw me - no one ever saw me like that, anyway. I couldn’t be seen unless I was all dressed up, with makeup and a poofy dresses.”

Liam looks at him for a moment, and Zayn can’t take it, suddenly, something seizing in his chest.

“I’m tired.” Zayn says simply. “I’m going to bed.”

 ❄ _11_ ❄ 

He’s sitting on the garden wall, two meters off the ground, when Liam comes down the path, a bag slung over his shoulders. It takes a moment until Liam spots him. It’s not his usual place, and he shouldn’t be up here, where people can see him. But then, why should he care who can see him? There’s no one to reprimand him if they do.

With some effort, Liam scrambles up the cobblestone wall to perch beside him. From up here, they can see the entire castle, the towers of gray brick flanked with black flags.

“I’m sorry about the King and the Queen.” Liam says, eyes big and wide. “Did you know them?”

Zayn shrugs. He shakes his head. “I – not really.”

“My mum says they got what was coming to them.”

“What does that mean?” Anger and shame rise in his chest.

“I don’t know. I think it’s a rotten thing to say. I told her.” Zayn sits silent. “And they have kids,” Liam continues. “What happens now to the princess, and the prince?”

“They wait until they’re adults,” Zayn answers. “The council and G - their grandmother have temporary power now. I think.”

“I hope they’re okay.” Liam frowns.

“They were kind to me.” Zayn feels his throat constricting. “The King and Queen. They were good, and…” he trails off.

“What?” Liam asks.

“Nevermind.” At once Zayn flings himself off the wall, landing hard on his feet on the lawn below.

A moment later, Liam lands beside him, leaning against him for a moment to catch his balance.

“Do you want to see the gardens?” Zayn asks suddenly. No one else will be there now, not at a time like this. Zayn might as well show him something new. The flowers are beautiful at this time of year; they just turned on the fountains last week, and they had planted new flowers that are just beginning to bloom.

“Really?” Liam’s eyes light up. “I’ve always wanted to see what they look like.”

“I know. You’ve only mentioned it a thousand times.”

Liam sticks out his tongue through his grin.

Zayn rolls his eyes, his chest suddenly feeling lighter. He leads Liam around the corner to a hole in the gate and steps between a pair of thick square hedges, where there’s a gap in the undergrowth. He sticks his head through. Sure enough, the garden is desolate. “Come on, come with me,” he waves through the hedge.

Liam bites his lip. “Are you sure? I don’t want to get in trouble – “

“You won’t. Promise.” Zayn steps through the hedges and sticks a hand through to Liam’s side.

A moment later, Liam takes his hand.

 

 ❄ _20_ ❄

It’s strange spending these days with them like this. Zayn can’t remember the last time he spent an entire day hanging out and having fun with friends. He’s never had a group of friends like this.

Liam and Louis have an on obvious longtime friendship that shows through their easy banter and the way they’re always egging each other on. Zayn and Liam, too, seem to have resumed something more normal, to small smiles and short conversations. Even Harry seems different, brighter and happier. Zayn hasn’t had more than a superficial conversation with him in nearly ten years, but Harry is funny and smart and every bit the precocious eight-year-old that Zayn remembers.

They’re on the same team today, and they’re actually doing alright, although Zayn has a sneaking suspicion that may have something to do with the fact that Harry has chosen to roll his sleeves all the way up, and Louis’ eyes keep catching on his bare arms and shoulders.

“Oy, c’mon!” Liam elbows him in the side. “It’d be nice to have a teammate.”

Zayn fakes Liam out, weaves around a tree and kicks the ball to Harry at the last moment so he can score a goal. Harry jumps in the air and looks back at him with a lopsided grin of triumph. “It’s nice to have a sister,” he crows.

And that - that shouldn’t bother him. Zayn agrees; it’s nice to be friends again. There’s no reason those words should make his skin prickle and his chest seize up, abruptly stripping away his energy so that he doesn’t even want to be there anymore.

It’s the same feeling that he’s had for most of his life, the sensation washing over him in thick waves. No matter how much he tries, they keep coming, increasing in speed and size and threatening to pull him under or pull him apart until all he can do is wrap himself in a blanket and try to lose himself in a book.

Louis comes inside, later, when Zayn is sitting on the sofa beneath a quilt, staring at the page of a book without really reading anything. Zayn looks up.

“Harry and Liam are out getting more firewood,” Louis informs him as he pokes at the dying fire once.

“Oh. Why aren’t you?”

“Why aren’t you?” Louis counters.

Zayn shrugs. Louis plops down onto the sofa next to him without asking.

“What’s Doncaster like?” Zayn asks, closing his book and sitting up with the quilt still wrapped around him. “I’ve never been.” He knows all the towns here, has visited a good deal of them, but no one ever says much about Doncaster.

“Lawless and savage,” Louis replies immediately. Zayn raises an eyebrow, glad he’s accustomed to Louis’ brand of sarcasm by now. Louis looks away after a moment. He gazes in the distance. “It’s nice. It’s like any other town, I s’pose – well, not like yours. It’s small. Everyone knows everyone, but we’re always welcoming newcomers, too.”

“A lot of people move there?” Zayn tilts his head.

“Yes. Don’t sound so surprised. We’re friendlier than most, I think.”

“And you weren’t born there?”

“Nope. We moved when I was eight, though.”

“What brought your family there?”

“My little sister went through some bad stuff as a kid, where we lived. Bullying.” Louis shakes his head. “She was only four. My mum finally had enough one day, and she moved us.”

“That must have been hard.” Zayn wonders what kind of person would bully a little girl so much that they’d need to move.

Louis shrugs. “It was hard leaving home, changing schools. My mum had to get a new job. But Doncaster was great, and we all found a place there pretty fast. Mum runs the clinic there now, and my sister is training to do the same - and, well, my other sisters are still in school, plus the babies…”

“How many siblings do you have?” He feels like he’s lost count.

“Six.”

Zayn whistles. “Wow. That’s a lot.”

Louis smiles. “It is. I wouldn’t have it any other way, though.” Zayn can’t imagine having that many siblings. Especially without his parents.

“What about your dad?”

Louis shrugs. “He died when I was six.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Me too.” He looks Zayn in the eye. “And you - “

Zayn looks away. “Yeah.”

“I don’t know what I’d’ve done without my mum,” he says honestly.

Zayn knows Louis wants something from him, but he doesn’t have anything to give. It’s too much.

After a long moment, Louis jumps up. “Anyway. Do you wanna know what I found this morning?” Zayn’s eyes follow him to the kitchen.

“What?” Zayn sits up with some effort. His back is killing him. Louis stands on his tiptoes and reaches for the tallest cabinet, and he comes back with two bottles of wine.

“What – were you snooping?”

“They’re old,” Louis says as his answer, grinning. “And anyway, Liam’s the one that most likely brought them in the first place.”

The front door opens, and Liam and Harry come in with an armful of wood each.

“Look what we have,” Louis grins, wagging the bottles in the air.

“Where’d you find those?” Liam asks. He tilts his head and grins. “On second thought, I don’t even want to know.”

The sun is low in the sky as Zayn finishes his second glass standing out on the porch.

“Hey.” Harry ducks out the door out to stand beside him. “It looks like the snow is melting.” With the warmer weather, it has melted substantially in the sun since this morning. He thinks that Liam and Louis - and Harry, too - can probably go home tomorrow.

“We’re going tomorrow, right?” Harry asks softly.

Zayn nods wordlessly.

“I mean, you’re coming back with us, right?” Harry rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet. “And then back home. To the castle.”

“Harry -”

“The kingdom needs you,” Harry pleads. “We need you.”

“I’m not going back there. I told you.”

“I know you said you didn’t want to come back,” Harry tries. “But you have me now. I can help you.” He looks up, hopeful. “I thought – you know, we’ve been falling out for so long, but now it’s like we have each other again, just like when we were kids. We can rule side by side, just like we always said.”

Zayn presses his palms to his forehead. “That’s not what it is, Harry. I just - I can’t be that person.”

“Who, the Queen? Z, you _are_ that person. I know you are.”

“I’m not. I’m not that mold, with the dresses, and the hair updos, and the makeup and the dancing and the way everyone looks at me, and like – I can’t be _her_.” Zayn’s throat feels thick. “I’ve tried so hard. I have. But it’s too much; I can’t pretend to be that person anymore. I can’t. And after what happened.”

Harry furrows his eyebrows. “I don’t understand. It’s just clothes. So you were wearing a clipped-on braid, you secretly have short hair.” He pauses. “You know. I don’t care about –“ he waves to Zayn. “How you look, or whatever. No one will care. You can cut your hair, you can wear what you want –“

“There are dress codes.”

“You can get Caroline to make you a dress you like. Or – you can just dress up for the balls, play the part when you need to, and not the rest of the time. What’s the big deal? You can still be the Queen. “

“So just, don’t be myself? Just force myself into – into hiding, into torturing myself when it’s not convenient?” His heart pounds in his chest.

“That’s not what I’m saying! There’s a time and place – “

“You sound like mum.”

Harry grits his teeth. “You can wear whatever you want. Cut your hair, they’ll just say it’s the new fashion. Don’t you get it? You’re the Queen! No matter what you do, you’ll still be the most perfect woman in the whole kingdom. Everything you do is perfect. Isn’t that how it’s always been?”

“That’s not – that’s not what it is.” Zayn’s head feels like it’s spinning. He doesn’t know what it is. “I just don’t want to be the Queen,” he says, deflatedly.

Harry turns away, eyes flashing with anger. “Well, that’s fucking convenient for you.”

Zayn seethes. “No, it’s really not, actually. It’s convenient for you. Go ahead, and go back home. Tell them I’ve absconded. Tell them I’m a freak. I don’t care. You can be King, take the throne yourself. Marry Nicholas tomorrow and rule together. Isn’t that what you want? I don’t even care.”

Harry throws his hands up. “There it is! You don’t care. You know, I’m starting to think maybe you’ve never cared. About me, about the kingdom – now you’re treating the kingdom just as coldly as you’ve always treated me.”

“That’s not true!” He clenches his fists. “You don’t know. It isn’t easy –”

“Right,” Harry snorts. “It’s not easy to be a princess, everyone fawning over you and telling you how perfect you are.”

“They don’t.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “The Queen of the bloody kingdom. Life is so hard.“

“That’s not what I think.”

“ _I can’t pay attention to my brother, I don’t care about anything except myself because it’s just_ so hard _to be me_ – “

“That’s not how it is, okay?”

“Do you know how long I’ve yearned for your attention?” Harry asks. “How many days – _years_ , I waited for you to acknowledge my existence, how much I just wanted you to notice me, or talk to me? When mum and dad died, you didn’t even talk to me! You were always stuck in your little world, hiding in your room and your lessons, learning how to be the fucking Queen. And now, after all of that, you don’t even want to!”

“It’s not just that. It’s – I’m not comfortable.” His throat constricts, unable to let out the words. He fights the urge to cover his ears.

“Too bad! It’s your job! You’re the Queen! That’s just what you do!”

Zayn shrinks back, and when he speaks, his voice sounds small. “I can’t.”

“Well, where does that leave the rest of us?” Harry’s words are deathly quiet, and it takes Zayn a moment to place the voice as his mother’s, hissing and severe.

“I don’t know.” His voice is hoarse.

Harry snorts with derision. “Maybe the kingdom is better off without you.”

Zayn doesn’t respond. Harry stares at him for a beat as if waiting for a response. When none comes, he turns on his heel and stalks away.

Zayn remains sitting beside the porch, alone, head reeling. Because that’s it, isn’t it. Harry’s right. He’s being selfish. He’s always been selfish.

He wishes he knew why. Every thought feels like he’s been ripped apart in two. That’s always been true. He just can’t do it anymore. That’s all. He wishes he could be the perfect Queen, but it always comes back to this. He can’t just will it away with sheer willpower, or with different clothes or hair.

Why can’t he do it? Why can’t he give this up for the good of the kingdom?

His ribs hurt. The evening air around him is silent; an icicle hanging from the edge of the roof drip-drip-drips on the ground beside him.

He wishes he could just disappear. If he’d never been born, if Harry could have been groomed to be the ruler, then everything would be fine.

Fuck it. He can be selfish. He doesn’t exist as some pawn for the kingdom. They’ll find someone else, someone better. They don’t want him, anyway. Harry’s right: the kingdom is better without him. He’s only being pragmatic.

And it’s done now, anyway. He’s gone, and he can’t turn back. Harry’s wrong about that. He can’t go back and pretend that what happened didn’t happen.

Suddenly he glances up. One of the icicles crashes to the ground beside him. It’s followed closely by a pair of legs, Louis sliding feet-first off the edge of the roof and landing on the snow with a soft thud behind him.

Zayn blinks, taking a moment to register his presence. “Were you up there this whole time?“ he asks hoarsely, more of a statement than a question. Louis doesn’t respond. If he was up there, he probably heard it all. He can add Louis to the list of people who hate him. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.

“He’s being an asshole, you know,” Louis declares.

Zayn almost laughs at that, choking on his own surprise. Louis sits down beside him on the stair, producing a half-empty bottle of wine with a sly grin. Zayn accepts it numbly.   

“No he’s not,” Zayn says finally, after a long pause. He takes a drink from the bottle. “He’s right. I was supposed to be the bloody Queen. I’m the only one. I wasn’t supposed to just leave.” Mistake after mistake; that’s the story of his life.

Louis shrugs. “You can do whatever you want.” He feels a sudden pang of jealousy for Louis. Louis actually can do whatever he wants. He could just move to a new town with a new identity, guiltlessly and with no repercussions for anyone except himself.

“I really can’t,” Zayn mumbles humorlessly, and takes another sip. “I fucked up.”

Louis hums and reaches for the bottle. They sit in quiet for a moment.  

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Zayn says then, breaking the silence. It doesn’t sound like him. It’s like the alcohol has gone straight to his brain, everything hazy. “I don’t know why I can’t just do it. Something - something is wrong with me. Something’s always been wrong with me.”

Louis squints at him for a long moment. He looks away, expression indecipherable. He picks at his shoe.

Then, he turns and looks up suddenly. “Are you a boy?” he asks.

Zayn looks up. He searches Louis’ face for any traces of a joke or an insult, but he finds nothing; Louis’ expression is even and open, easy in a way that catches Zayn off-guard.

“What?” He barks a single, startled laugh and tugs at the fabric on his shirt.  “Obviously not – “

“No,” Louis interrupts, gently. Louis taps his fingers against his own chest twice before settling his hand there. “I mean, _are_ you? Inside.”

Zayn sputters. “That’s not – I’m – “ He suddenly doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what he is.

Something about Louis’ question feels immediately and intimately familiar, like a place he visited long ago in his childhood, creeping under his skin with instant recognition.

Louis shrugs. “You know, people – all kinds of people – can be born and _told_ that they’re one thing, girl or boy or whatnot, when really, in their brains and in their hearts, they’re the other, or something else.”

He looks into Zayn’s eyes again for a moment, blue eyes soft and earnest and calm.

Zayn swallows. He looks away. It feels like a blanket descending over his body, like something he’s been holding so far away for so long, for his whole life, even. He pulls his knees close to his chest. The air is cold but he feels on fire.

Because it makes sense, doesn’t it.

Louis leans forward. “It’s okay,” he says softly. “Whatever it is.”

There it is. Oh, god. His head is careening out of control, desperate to keep a hold on something. Something he’s spent so long holding back, hiding, keeping locked in the far recesses of his mind where it can never, ever be seen.

“Back home,” Louis continues, more softly, “I’ve known some people. People close to me, who are like that. Transgender.”

“What?” Zayn looks up.

“One of my best friends, when she was born, her parents - well, they thought she was a boy. She used to throw a fit about getting to wear dresses, about getting her hair cut. Even as a baby. She wanted to be a princess.” Zayn grimaces. “And then, one day, she said it: ‘I’m a girl.’ And it all made sense.”

And it’s not the first time Zayn has ever heard of such a thing. He’s heard of men wearing women’s clothing. But he didn’t know it had a name, a meaning, a context outside of prowling the dark streets at night. He just never considered –

“And her family?” Zayn asks.

“They loved her, and they knew that’s what would make her happy. And she is. She’s a girl – an incredible girl. Simple as that.”

Zayn feels frozen in time. This icicles above him drip in slow motion. Because that’s it, isn’t it. That’s the piece of the jigsaw puzzle that finally fits, that puts into words the unexplainable feelings that have been swirling around his mind for as long as he can remember. It suddenly strikes him odd, absurd, even, that he’s never thought of it himself before, that nobody has ever asked him when it seems like such an obvious question.

The words form together in his brain, and finally, for once, he lets them settle there.

A boy.

 

 ❄ _14_ ❄

Zayn doesn’t hate his body.

It’s his, a part of him; and he doesn’t hate himself, not usually. And besides, he has no other choice except to tolerate it.

It’s just, he hates it sometimes.

No one ever told him about all the ways it’s going to betray him. It betrays him in ways he expected, and ways he didn’t.  

He doesn’t hate his body. He just – he feels like his body hates him sometimes. Like they’re two different people bound together but not necessarily on the same page. It doesn’t grow into an enemy so much as a stranger, someone he doesn’t know and doesn’t understand.

He especially hates the way that everyone wants him to _emphasize_ all the things he dislikes about it. When he tries to match Harry’s confident and loping strides, he’s reprimanded into small, rigid steps that won’t throw off his shoes. He rarely makes appearances anymore, but when he does, they make him wear corsets that grip him around the middle so his chest and hips look even bigger.

He tries not to tear himself apart, but it’s hard when his own body is a stranger, and the whole world is telling him that it’s not, that _he’s_ the stranger.

He doesn’t try to fight back anymore. When Caroline or the seamstresses or anyone else comes to him with fabric or lace, he thanks them with a cordial, cardboard smile like he’s supposed to, and he doesn’t say a word more.

 _Conceal. Don’t feel._ That’s what his mother always told him. He’s the future Queen. Part of his responsibility is hiding the parts of him that aren’t appropriate for the public eye, the parts that might compromise his ability to lead the kingdom with strength and consistency. _Don’t let them know_. Zayn needs to live up to their wishes, now that they’re gone. He _needs_ to. It’s the least he can do, when he can’t reverse what he did to them.  

He doesn’t fight back outwardly, but inside, he feels stunted. He feels like someone else. He stops eating for a time, from stress and in an effort to keep skinny, to keep his chest from growing any larger. It doesn’t work, and when the cook begins to notice and fret over it, he gives up.

He pulls away from socializing, even more than before; he disassociates, spending hours and days alone in his room drawing or reading, caught up in other worlds where he’s not here and he’s not him.

He hears the other girls talk. They giggle as they try on corsets and dresses, comparing their bodies to each other’s and to the older women in the castle. They size themselves up in the mirror, pucker their colored lips and put powder on their faces and pluck their eyebrows to look older.

Zayn can’t bear to look at himself in the mirror anymore.

He sees his own silhouette grow into soft curves, while Harry grows into all squares and sharp angles. His little brother skyrockets past him in height, his arms and legs growing long and gangly more quickly than anyone, even himself, can keep up with. He’s always tripping over his own feet.

Zayn can’t help noticing how Harry’s face lengthens into something chiseled, strong and angular even with his childish cheeks and dimples. Zayn’s, despite his high cheekbones and strong jaw, seems round in comparison. He can’t help noticing Harry’s broadening shoulders, the firm flat sloping of his chest, the size of his hands.

He’s not supposed to be jealous; he can’t be jealous. Zayn is, objectively, _pretty._ In his logical mind, he knows that he looks how he’s supposed to look. He just can’t convince the rest of himself.

It’s just that when Harry brushes shoulders with him in the hallway one morning and utters a mumbled “sorry,” his voice seems to have dropped two octaves, scratchy and low. When Zayn opens his mouth to respond, his own voice sounds downright squeaky, and he’s never felt more small.

And then there’s Liam.

Liam, who’s always there waiting for him by the gate, even though he’s taken on more responsibility for his family’s store. Liam, who never holds any judgment when Zayn can’t go out to meet him because he’s busy or because it’s just too much.

Liam, who is becoming unfairly pretty, with the same round brown eyes, a strong jaw, arms thickening with muscle from all the time he spends hauling shipments for work. As he grows, his hair gets a bit scragglier, and his face becomes dusted with hair. His voice deepens. It’s a pretty voice; once, sitting beneath the big aspen tree outside the garden, he sings for him.

Zayn wishes his sounded more like it, but he isn’t jealous; he can’t be jealous of Liam. He loves Liam.

And that’s confusing. He’s heard other girls gushing over boys, and he’s read enough books about to understand what’s happening. Liam does all of that to him - makes his chest feel warm and fluttery all at once, makes his stomach do flips. But at the same time, he doesn’t like Liam that way. He doesn’t want to be his _girlfriend_. He just wants them to stay they way they’ve always been.

He doesn’t know what he wants.

He can’t help the nagging feeling that something is wrong. When he imagines his future, the future planned out for him since the day he was born, all he sees is gray and smoke, something he can’t get past. He doesn’t know what he wants, who he wants to be, but he thinks that’s not it.

Which is why he finds himself in the seamstresses’ room one rainy evening, when no one else is around.

He only came here to look for a measuring stick; the one in the library was missing, and he knows Caroline keeps one in here. The room is filled with different pieces of fabric; various half-finished dresses, jackets, hats and other articles of clothing line the walls, and another notepad of hasty but detailed designs sits on the table. Caroline designs everything here herself, by hand, in addition to styling their hair; she’s ridiculously talented.

Zayn peeks into a big drawer filled with scraps, piles of small pieces of fabric and long-abandoned projects. He absently rubs the bits of silk, linen, and velvet between his fingers.

Then his eyes fall onto something cast aside in the corner of the drawer. It’s a loop of strong linen that looks like maybe it was supposed to be a part of a corset, only it’s short and narrow all around, more like a tube, with stretchy material at the back.

He gravitates toward the idea immediately and unthinkingly, without knowing why. He grabs it and takes it behind one of the dressing curtains, facing away from the mirror and quickly removing his shirt and jumper. With some effort, he shimmies the loop of fabric over his torso, his chest. It’s tiny, even around his small body, and he can feel his ribs straining against it when he breathes. He slides his shirt back on over it and finally turns to look in the mirror.

His body is smooth, his chest nearly flat. He’s never seen himself like this, but somehow he recognizes it instantly. It looks so _right,_ and that elates him and terrifies him at the same time.  

He turns sideways one way, then the other. He pulls it down to try to find a better position, straining to take a deep breath. It’s constricting and tight, yes. But it’s a good kind of tight, tight in a way that makes him feel strong, tight in the way he imagines a suit of armor is tight.

Zayn could slay dragons in this.

He wears it back to his bedroom, filled with a new boldness, an exhilaration as he walks down the corridor. It feels wrong and right at the same time. He can’t stop looking at his reflection. It’s almost like he’s been looking into fun-house mirrors for his whole life, and he’s just now finally seeing himself in a real mirror.

The exhilaration quickly turns into fear when he hears footsteps. Someone will come in soon, inevitably. Someone will notice. He looks at himself one more time before standing against the door and wriggling his body to peel it off, with considerable effort. He folds it quickly, storing it in the back of his closet. He feels naked again, even after he replaces his shirt and jumper.

He shakes his head. He thinks maybe he won’t come back to it; maybe it was just for fun, just this once. But mostly, he knows. He’ll come back to it.

 

 

 

 ❄ _20_ ❄

“Zayn.” The word comes out from his throat broken and raspy.

“Pardon?”

Zayn swallows, willing his pounding heart to slow down. “Zayn,” he says louder. His voice still feels weak. “I – I’ve always thought I would call myself Zayn.” Not a nickname, but something else; it was his grandfather’s name, his father’s father. He never met him, but he always wondered if he was named after him.

“Zayn,” Louis repeats softly. “That suits you.”

Zayn finally dares to look up. His heart still pounds in his chest, and he can hear the blood rushing through his ears.

“Hi, Zayn.”

The weight comes crushing down on him again, and he looks away. _Oh, god._

“Hey,” Louis says finally. “I’m not telling you what to do. But if you came to Doncaser – . My mum’s a doctor, and the clinic sees a lot of clients who are trans.”

He looks down. “Would they fix me?”

“No, there’s no fixing,” Louis says firmly. “But they can help, sometimes. We have some brilliant scientists who’ve made sort of medications that can help you change, If you wanted.”

“Medication?”

“Only if you wanted,” Louis says. He sighs. “You should see for yourself. I think it could be good for you. And to hear more, talk to someone who’s really been there, instead of me.” He shrugs. “But again, I’m not saying you have to. I’m not in the business of telling absconded royalty what to do.”

The kingdom. Where does this fit in with the fact that was supposed to be in charge of a kingdom?

Suddenly, quick footsteps sound around the front of the cabin, and Liam runs around the corner. “Oh, thank god,” he says, panting. He’s red-faced in the dim dusk light, and he looks agitated.

“What’s wrong?”

“Harry’s hurt.”

“What?” Zayn and Louis stand immediately.

“He must have slipped down the bluff,” Liam explains with worry as he leads them running to the side of the hill just beside the stables. At the bottom of the bluff, Harry is lying on the ground, his skin yellow in the fading dusk and Liam’s lantern light. He groans as he struggles to stand up, holding his arm at an unnatural angle and limping on one leg.

Louis goes to his side immediately. Harry yelps as Louis carefully rolls up the sleeve of his coat. “It’s broken.” Louis grimaces. He examines Harry’s foot next, carefully pushing at his ankle. “This isn’t bad, though – it’s a sprain at worst.”

Carefully, they guide Harry back to the cabin. Louis walks on one side helping support his weight, and Liam takes the other side as they take small steps up the steep hill.

Zayn walks uselessly to the side, avoiding eye contact with all of them. Harry was only agitated because of him. He wouldn’t have been prowling around outside without watching where he was going if it weren’t for his mood, if it weren’t for Zayn.

“We’re gonna have to set it,” Louis declares when they get inside the cabin. He sits Harry on the sofa and makes eye contact with Zayn. “Z, go get a branch, something straight and sturdy, but not too thick. Liam, go boil some water.” Harry groans again. “Hang on,” Louis says soothingly. “We’ll fix it. Just stay still.”

Zayn races outside and searches the perimeter by lantern light until he finds a few branches around the length of Harry’s lower arm, long and straight. When he gets back, Louis chooses the last one, seemingly satisfied with the selection. He’s already holding a strip of cloth.

“Okay,” he turns to Harry. “I’m going to set the break, and then I’m going to stabilize it by tying your arm it to this branch. It’s going to hurt, but trust me.”

Harry gives a small, pained nod, clearly unconvinced. His face is pale.

“Look, my mum’s a doctor, and I’ve helped out at the clinic since I was small.”

Liam nods. “He knows what he’s doing, Harry.”

Louis rests one hand on Harry’s other shoulder. “Okay. Ready?”

Zayn looks away during the worst of it. Harry’s yelped cries turn into a stream of whimpers, and when Zayn looks again, he has the branch tied up to his arm holding it straight. His face is screwed up in pain.

Liam leaves and returns with some sort of tree bark, drops it into the boiling water and stirs it around for a few minutes before scooping it into a mug. Louis turns to Harry. “C’mon, this will help with the pain.” They get Harry to drink a few sips. After that, he’s mostly silent, and soon enough, he falls asleep.

Zayn doesn’t sleep much. The past day feels like a strange nightmare, twisted and pained. Only, it’s not. Harry hurt himself because they had a fight, because Zayn couldn’t do what he has to. And what Louis said –

Zayn still doesn’t know what to do with that information.

When he does sleep, it’s brief and fitful, filled with dreams where Harry is dead, where Zayn is a kid again and his father is yelling at him.

He’s awake when the sun makes it slow ascent over the horizon. A knock sounds on his door

“Zayn,” comes a whisper. Louis pokes his head into his room. _Zayn._ Something about hearing him say the word feels so different and momentous, and somehow, terrifyingly, right. “Z.” He says it with more urgency, and Zayn recognizes the worry in his voice.

On the sofa, Harry is shivering. “He’s burning up,” Louis murmurs as he presses a hand to Harry’s forehead. Louis peels back the quilt. Harry writhes back and forth, then cries out at the pain. Beneath the blankets, his arm is swollen and tinted with a sickly purple.

Liam emerges from upstairs and begins moving around the cabin, gathering various things. “We need to go,” Louis says. “I think it might be infected.”

“Where?”

“Doncaster will be the closest town with a clinic. They’ll be able to help. If we’re fast enough, we’ll get there a bit before sundown.”

Harry shoots up, his eyes dilated. “No – “

“Shh,” Louis soothes.

“What about the snow?” Zayn asks.

“We’ll just have to deal with it.  If we don’t get him to a doctor soon…” Louis trails off. He glances at Zayn, then looks at him more meaningfully. “Are you coming?”

“Yes.” Zayn is going. The decision is easy and immediate. He’s not leaving his brother, not after what he did.

Rufus seems thrilled at the prospect of pulling the sleigh again. She wriggles like an excited puppy as they load the sleigh and tie her into her harness. Liam sits up at the front, while Louis guides Harry into the back of the sleigh with him. Zayn gets up on Midnight, who seems decidedly less enthusiastic about tromping through the snow. It’s not very deep anymore, though; she can make it, especially in the track carved out by the sleigh.

Zayn doesn’t even really think about the fact that he’s going to Doncaster, the same place Louis told him so much about yesterday, until they’ve begun the slow journey down the first hill. After that, he can’t stop thinking about everything Louis said, about himself. Part of him wants to stop, because it sounds ridiculous in the end; it does, but also. It somehow fits his experiences so perfectly, everything in his life up to this point making so much more sense.

He has too much time to think about it over the bouncy cadence of his horse’s hoofsteps, and everything begins forming with more clarity.  Maybe he is Zayn. Maybe he’s always been Zayn. It brings so many memories into focus: the way he idolized his father and resented his mother for making him dress and act like her; his anger at the way they taught him to present himself; why they forbade him from playing with Harry; even the way he used to slick back his fringe so it looked more like a boy’s. And his daydreams about actually being someone else, about being Zayn. He can’t believe he didn’t realize it sooner.

Zayn watches Harry’s head slowly nod over, jostling on top of Louis’ shoulder as they walk. Occasionally he wakes up, and Louis cajoles him into drinking sips of water.  

If Zayn had been the Prince. If he had been born the first Prince, everything would be so different. Everything would be fine. His parents would still be alive. He’d be preparing to be the King. He aches for a past he never had, a future he’ll never have, because – _because_.

His thoughts stop there. He would have thought that knowing, now, would make everything better. Identifying the problem, he knows, is always the first step to solving it. But instead, knowing it, putting a name and a face and a reality to it, makes him feel somehow worse. Identifying exactly what makes him want to claw his body apart gives a peculiar clarity to each time that someone has said “she,” each small difference between his body and theirs. And there’s nothing he can do about it.

He stares at the back of Liam’s head as he gently steers Rufus along the path. A sobering realization hits him. Liam likes girls. If it’s true that Zayn is – well, Zayn, then anything between them is futile.

He weighs the outcomes in his head. Losing Liam. Losing Harry, and his grandmother and the kingdom. Of course, he already expected to lose all of them, but somehow all of this makes it more real. Where could he live? Could he reinvent himself with a brand new identity? Would anyone ever truly see him?

They make good time over the hillsides, stopping only twice for breaks. Harry’s asleep during the first break, Louis gently setting him down in the sleigh to let him continue sleeping. Zayn and Liam let the animals drink while Louis finds more of the medicinal tree bark that Liam brought in last night.

Zayn avoids eye contact. It’s too much, when he thinks he sees Liam looking over at him with sympathy and worry. He focuses on his horse.

When they stop the second time, Harry is awake and even seems lucid, and Zayn could cry from relief. Harry limps to stand up and stretch his legs. Rufus ambles over and licks his chin, and he giggles. “She was worried,” Louis says. “C’mon. We’ll be there in a couple of hours.”

“Where are we going?” Harry asks groggily as he sits down again, looking between them.

“Doncaster,” Zayn answers. Harry frowns. “Louis’ mom is a doctor there.”

“But isn’t that a bad place? I’ve heard they practice, like, dark arts.”

Zayn looks to Louis for a snarky reply, but none comes. Instead Louis grimaces.

“No witchcraft,” Louis says, a little deflatedly. “Just new ideas. Great ideas, but new ideas. That’s why we’re known for our medicine.”

“Oh.” Harry says, furrowing his brow with confusion. “Sorry.”

Zayn has never fully considered how Louis must feel hailing from a place with such a reputation. Zayn has heard only that Doncaster doesn’t participate in trade, that it holds no significance except as a quiet destination for unsavory figures. But clearly, Harry has heard enough rumors to think they practice some sort of black magic. He can’t imagine what others must think about it.

Louis shrugs. He glances sideways at Zayn. “It’s fine,” he says, and Zayn doesn’t know which of them he’s speaking to. “Come on, let’s go.”

Finally, they reach a hilltop where he can see dots of tiny buildings, with smoke rising up in the distance. It’s Doncaster. They’re halfway down the shallow valley from town, buildings still barely visible over the hill in the distance, when four little girls come careening toward them.

“Louis! Liam!”

Zayn pulls his hat down over his ears as they approach. He still doesn’t know if anyone will be able to recognize him. Fortunately, he doesn’t need to worry, because the girl who walks toward him is only interested in one thing.

“Your horse is so pretty!” she coos. “What’s their name?”

“Midnight,” Zayn says. She oohs, and holds her hands up high for her to sniff. She giggles and pets her nose.

Zayn looks over to the rest of them. Louis and Liam are standing with the eldest, a tall girl with long blonde hair and devious blue eyes exactly like her brother’s. Meanwhile, Harry is sitting on the edge of the sleigh under Louis’ watchful eye, and the other two girls – identical twins, from the looks of it – are threading beads onto his hair.

“Lou, we like Harry!” one of them announces.

“Is he your _boyfriend_?” the other one screeches.

Harry looks at Louis, eyes wide.

“They like each other,” the first twin whispers with a solemn nod, nudging her sister.

Louis looks back at them and narrows his eyes.  Harry’s cheeks flush pink as he looks up helplessly, and Zayn snorts.

“No,” Louis says, exasperated. “I mean, I like him fine, but he’s not – my _boyfriend._ ”

“Why not?” she inquires, reaching up to stroke Harry’s hair. “He’s cute.“ Harry grins, dimples deepening at the attention.

Louis rolls his eyes. “Girls.”

“Why not?” she demands again. “Lotts,” she whines to the oldest girl. “Why won’t Lou tell us why Harry isn’t his boyfriend?”

“I don’t know, Daisy,” Lottie says. She eyes Louis playfully. “Why is that?”

Louis rolls his eyes again and huffs dramatically. “Girls! He’s engaged to someone else, okay? Happy?” They go silent. “Someone whose favorite food is – pickled carrot juice topped with icing sugar and fish eggs,” he adds, side-eyeing Harry.

Harry rolls his eyes, but a small grin quirks at his mouth. “Beet juice,” he says.

Louis tilts his head. “What?”

“You always say – pickled beet juice,” Harry clarifies. Louis barks out a laugh, and Harry grins. The kids look between them suspiciously.

“Ew,” one of the twins says finally. She wrinkles her nose. The other one walks around to examine Harry’s left hand. “He doesn’t have a ring,” she declares.

“Well, see, we didn’t have time – “

“Girls, don’t be rude,” Louis interrupts sharply. They step back  “Harry is sick,” he says more softly. “He needs to get his broken arm fixed up.” Then, “And he doesn’t need to catch four new viruses.”

One of the twins sticks out her tongue. Louis picks her up and swings her over his shoulder, and she shrieks with laughter. “Sorry,” Louis turns to Harry, still holding the giggling girl upside-down over his shoulder. “They’re little monsters.”  He sets her down, and she scrambles back to her sisters.

“This is Daisy and Phoebe.” Louis points to one twin, and then the other. Zayn can’t tell the difference at all, except that one is in a green tunic and the other blue. “Felicite,” he points at the middle girl. “And Charlotte – Lottie for short,” he says of the oldest one, who smirks. “Girls, this is Harry. And that’s Zee. We need to get to the clinic. Can you go find mum?”

 

 

 

They walk with Harry to a narrow, nondescript building. He takes small, pained steps and leans on Louis for support as they walk up the path to the door, where a tall man ushers them inside. Zayn and Liam stay outside in silence. Zayn wrings his hands.

“He’ll be fine,” Liam reassures him. “Louis’ mum is amazing. He’ll be alright again in no time.” Zayn doesn’t respond, and Liam moves to put a hand on his shoulder. Zayn flinches. There’s too much swirling around his head right now, too much to think about that he can’t take hold of.

Liam pulls his hand back.

Louis comes back out of the building several minutes later. “He’ll be fine,” he reassures him. “They think he might have an infection from the break. They’re giving him some stuff for that, and for the fever, and they’re gonna set his arm properly.”

“Can I talk to him?” Zayn feels like he hasn’t said a word to Harry in a week.

“He’s sleeping now,” Louis says. “Side effect of the medicine. He’ll be awake later.” He lowers his voice. “And if you don’t want anyone to know who you are, you should be careful. No one’s recognized him yet, per se, but there may be talk. And the two of you together –“

“Right.” Zayn swallows.

“Hey, Liam!” A young woman comes down the path waving at Liam.

“Soph,” he nods. “How’s the shop?”

“All good,” she says, giving Liam a quick hug before stopping beside them.

“This is Sophia,” Liam introduces. “She helps run the store when I’m gone.” She eyes him. “And this is Z – erm, another friend of mine and Louis’ from town,” he says vaguely. After a beat she turns back to Liam and starts talking about supplies and shipments.

Louis elbows Zayn’s side. “C’mon, let me show you where you can stay.”

First, he takes Zayn to his little house adjacent to the clinic. Zayn sets down his bag by the small cot upstairs, and he thanks Louis again.

“No problem. So, do you want me to give you the grand tour?”

“Okay.” Zayn nods.

Louis leads him across the town square pointing out all of the different buildings: the general store, homes, schoolhouses and pubs. The town is small and ordinary, not much different from other small towns he’s heard about or visited with his parents when he was young.

Only, it also seems different than any other place he’s been. For one thing, everyone seems happy to know Louis. Seemingly everyone they pass greets them with a wave and a smile. Everyone also looks a little different; some have colorful clothes, hair, or even ink on their skin. It’s uncommon and usually frowned upon back home, but here, no one seems to mind.

“Hi, Pearl,” Louis waves at a tall, dark-skinned woman passing by on the street. “She owns this pub,” he points out.

“Hi, Louis,” she waves, and only then does Zayn realize how tall she really is; she towers over them, and her voice is kind of deep, and - oh.

His heart beats faster. This must be what Louis had been talking about. He’s never really seen anyone like that – anyone like _him,_ he thinks. He fights from looking back again. She seemed so normal, though, as if nothing was any different. He feels a rush of shame at the thought. Why shouldn’t she be?

He can’t be certain, but as they walk around, he thinks he sees a few others that don’t quite fit into neat gender boxes, whose clothing and bodies and faces don’t seem to perfectly match up or look like any particular sex at all. And everyone is simply going about their business out in the open, walking and chatting and working together. He can see why this town might be derided as something to avoid. It’s a safe haven for people to be themselves _._

As he walks through town, he can’t help but slip back into monarch mode, curious about the inner workings of a small town like this. He’s not sure how the town generates enough money to survive; he hasn’t seen much farmland or heard about any particular exports. As far as he knows, it doesn’t have any support from Arendelle center or any trade agreements with the surrounding area. It’s a miracle that the town has survived, and even more so that it seems to be thriving.

He asks Louis as much. “So. What’re the main exports here?”

“That’s a political question,” Louis chuckles. “People sell this and that. But here,” Louis says, veering right on a stone path, “is the most important place. The greenhouse.”

“Greenhouse?”

Louis leads him past a pair of stone walls, through a door and into a huge room with a glass ceiling and walls. As its name suggests, the room is bright green. A huge variety of lush green plants grow out from the ground and from vertical stacks of what look like pipes with holes cut into them. Even compared to the gardens at the castle, it’s like a jungle. The air is warm, and in the back Zayn can see a door leading to another room like this. He wonders how many there are.

In the midst of it all, two figures are knelt down on the ground together examining a cluster of little plants. They turn when the door shuts.

One of them is the oldest girl who greeted them when they first arrived – Louis’ sister Charlotte. The other wears thick-rimmed glasses over pale skin and light blond hair, which is short except for three long, purple braids hanging down on one side.

“Louis! Where’ve you been?” Both pairs of eyes settle on Zayn with curiosity.

Louis grins in response. “You’ve met my sister Lottie,” Louis says to Zayn. “And this is Niall. He basically runs this place.” Niall grins and stands up, and Zayn sees he’s wearing a skirt that nearly matches Lottie’s, ruffled at the bottom but otherwise plain and utilitarian.

“’m Niall.” Niall juts out a hand.

Zayn takes a breath. “I’m Zayn,” he blurts out before he can stop himself. He wants to catch the words as soon as they exit his mouth, as if the world might crumble right here, or everyone might laugh at him. But they don’t. Nothing happens.

“Good to meet you, Zayn,” Niall says without hesitation as he gives Zayn’s hand a hearty shake. Zayn exhales and glances at Louis. He’s looking straight ahead but grinning, clearly pleased.

“Welcome!” Niall opens his arms and motions around them. “What d’you think of the place?”

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Zayn says truthfully. He still can’t get over the amount of thriving plant life - and edible plant life, by the looks of it - living here while every other town is probably just beginning their summer planting. “It’s pretty incredible. How does it all work?”

“Well, the glass lets the light in and keeps the cold out,” Lottie explains. Niall nods, and then he starts running from place to place, excitedly explaining the workings of all the pipes running across the floor and the walls and the layout of the plants. Zayn recognizes a slew of different types of flowers and herbs and vegetables along the way, and all of them are seemingly thriving.

So this is how Doncaster has stayed alive this long so effortlessly. They’ve developed new technology. They grow a huge amount of vegetables and other plants, all behind these protective panels of glass.

“What’s this?” A huge section at the end of the wall appears to be filled with the same plant, growing thick and leafy in dozens of rows.

“Yams,” Niall answers with a grin.

“Why are there so many?” he wonders.

Lottie answers from behind. “Well, we eat them, but we also extract chemicals from them to make medicines. Or, Niall does.” Niall shrugs with a bashful smile, and she nudges his side. “Don’t be modest. He invented the technique when he was fourteen.”

“It’s not that complicated,” he mumbles.

“What is it?” Zayn asks, confused.

“Synthetic hormones. This stuff changed my life,” Lottie says matter-of-factly. “If it weren’t for this, I don’t know where I’d be.”

“You’d still be my baby sister,” Louis says with a frown.

Zayn suddenly understands. “Oh.” She doesn’t look like the woman they saw earlier. She’s a little tall, but she looks like any 16-year-old girl.

“Yeah. I’m trans,” she says simply.

“How long have you - “ he pauses, trying to find the right words. “When did you know?” He hopes it’s not an inappropriate question, but he supposes they must have an idea of what’s going on with him. He doesn’t exactly look like a fully-grown man.

“Always, I suppose,” she shrugs. “I’ve lived as _me_ ever since we moved here when I was four. And before that, I still knew.’

“Before she could even talk,” Louis confirms. They share a smile. So that’s what Louis meant when he said they’d had to move here because of his little sister.

“People in our old town were pricks,” Louis shrugs. “People just fear what they don’t understand.”

Zayn nods dumbly.

“Anyway, Niall here is a chemistry genius, and he developed method of extracting chemicals from these yams to synthesize hormones. I’ve been on them for about two years, now.” She smiles and spins around with a flourish.  

Zayn’s head spins. He never considered that something like this could even exist. It’s like magic. He doesn’t dare to wonder if there’s anything that works in the other direction.

He turns to Niall slowly. “What about you?’

“Assigned female at birth,” Niall says in a dramatic, announcer-like voice. “If that’s what you were wondering.” He shrugs.

Zayn struggles to contain his surprise, his heart catching in his throat. Niall does look boyish, but his voice is deep, his face angled. He has fuzz on his chin. But then again, he’s also wearing a skirt and has the braids down the side of his hair.

Niall must notice Zayn looking him up and down, and he chuckles. “Yeah, ‘ve been on T – that’s testosterone – for a few years now. But I s’pose I fall somewhere near the middle of the spectrum,” he shrugs. “I’m not particular. I dress how I feel, and how I’m comfortable. And trust me, you’ve got to keep cool when you spend all day in here.” He swishes the skirt.

Lottie laughs. Then she peers out of the window and purses her lips. “Hey, I’ve got to get back to the clinic,” she says. She pauses to kiss Niall on the cheek, and he grins, cheeks flushing pink. Louis pulls a face, and she turns around and grabs his face to kiss his cheek, too. “Zayn, I’ll see you around?” He nods, suddenly shy.

After she leaves, Niall turns to him and cocks his head. “I take it this is all new for you.”

“Yeah.”

“What’re your preferred pronouns?”

Zayn swallows. He’s never really given himself permission to even think about it, not outside of those long-forgotten daydreams.

Louis speaks up. “Y’know. He, she, they…”

“He, I think.” He glances at Louis, then Niall, as if for confirmation. It all feels so new, but neither of them is looking at him like anything is strange or wrong.

“Alright,” Niall says, clapping him on the back.  

Over the course of their conversations, it comes up a few times. “Met him through Liam’s shop,” Louis explains shortly when Niall asks how they know each other. When Zayn beats Louis to naming one of the flowers, Niall guffaws, “He knows more than you already.”

If Zayn wasn’t certain before, it’s all but confirmed by the swell of pride and excitement every time he hears this simple. He can’t believe how it feels. It does sound a bit strange at first, but more than anything it just feels right.

Niall finally takes them into his tiny lab, lined with iceboxes and filled with all different flasks and vials of different liquids. He speaks enthusiastically and nonstop about chemicals and reactions and studies they’ve done to perfect their work here. Every so often he says something Zayn recognizes, but it’s mostly a jumble.

“So what do they do? Like, exactly?” he asks shyly.  

“T? Increased muscle mass, deeper voice; more body hair, and facial hair, eventually,” he says, thumbing at the fuzz on his chin. “Basically all the same stuff that happens to other boys during puberty.”

His heart beats wildly in his chest. This thing really is him. It’s what he’s always wanted, an answer to the way he feels, to the nagging he’s dealt with his whole life but has never really been able to put into words. And now there’s something that really could turn him into someone else.

“How would you…” he chokes out. “I mean, if you wanted...”

“You should talk to Jay.”

 

 

 

The clinic is bustling with activity at this time of day, so despite his disappointment, he understands that Jay can’t talk to him right away. Nevertheless, Louis disappears inside of the clinic while Niall takes him to a food stall for some sandwiches. “Niall’s appetite has always been huge, by the way,” Louis warns as he jogs through the door.

Sure enough, Niall scarfs down his first sandwich with alarming speed before starting the second.

“What can I say?” he grins through a bite. Zayn picks at his own sandwich.

He’s not sure where Liam is, and he’s almost grateful for that. As much Zayn he aches for his presence, that aching is shadowed by a fear of losing him. He doesn’t know what Liam would think.

“So you and Lottie…” Zayn begins carefully.

Niall’s face turns pink. He pushes his glasses up on his nose. “What about us?”

“You’re together?”

“Yeah.” His face breaks into a small smile, like he can’t help himself.

“And it’s, like.” _It works?_ He wants to ask.

“We love each other.” He shrugs. “That’s what matters, innit?”

Zayn nods. “Are a lot of people here transgender?” he asks.

“Not a huge number,” Niall shrugs. “But word gets around. Folks know that they don’t have to hide here.” He takes another huge bite. ‘Y’know, you should come by the lab tomorrow afternoon. We have a little meet-up. You can get to know some more folks.”

Suddenly a little girl comes running toward them, pigtails bobbing as she runs. “Ni!” she shrieks with delight. She scrambles up into his arms.

“Like this little lady!” He says, lifting her in the air. “This is Lux,” he says. “Luxy, this is Zayn.”

“Hi.” She waves with pudgy fingers and stares at him with big, blue eyes for a moment. Then she climbs off and runs away giggling back to her dad.

Zayn pulls a slice of cucumber out of his sandwich. “Did you grow this?”

“Yep,” Niall says proudly. “We grow almost everything here.”

“Your technology is pretty amazing. No one else has anything like it – I mean, I don’t think,” he corrects himself.

“Yeah,” Niall says. “I’d like to share it with the rest of the kingdom. I think it could make a big difference.”

“Why haven’t you?”

“We don’t exist, remember?” Niall grimaces. “We risk enough with Liam and Soph bringing stuff in and out. If someone knew… we have no protection. And the folks here, we’re not really apt to take up arms and fight.“ He chuckles. “But we’re fine. Life is good.” He swallows the last of his sandwich and lies back on the bench as if to sunbathe.

Eventually, Niall needs to return to work. Zayn takes the opportunity to wander around alone for a bit, quietly observing the town as the afternoon slips into evening. After checking on his horse at the stable, he finds himself outside the general store. Through the window he can see Liam knelt down by a shelf, laughing at something Zayn can’t see.

It isn’t fair that after all this, he’s still thinking so much about Liam. Seeing him causes his heart to jump, and it always has, no matter how much time they spend together, and no matter how obvious it is that nothing more can happen between them.

He shakes his head just as Liam stands up and spots him through the window. He breaks into a smile and waves through the window. Zayn takes a breath and opens the door.

“Z,” Liam greets him. He opens his arms. “This is our shop.” The walls are lined with all sorts of products, from clothing to food, tools, and toys and sweets.

“You manage it along with your parents’ place?”

“Yeah, me and Soph,” Liam nods. It’s must be one of only a few major ways that anything comes in and out of this town. “How do you like town?”

“It’s been nice,” he shrugs carefully. “Louis showed me around a bit.”

“That’s good.” Liam smiles. Zayn takes a breath and wills himself to look away.

“Actually,” Zayn says, thumbing through a stack of sweets, “I was thinking of getting something to bring Harry.” The activity around the clinic seems to have died down considerably as the sun has begun setting, and he needs to check on his brother.

“Come here.” Liam touches his arm waves him over to the other side of the counter. Zayn hadn’t noticed the tiny boxes of colorful macaroons. “These are from the confectionary next door. They’re fantastic.”

“Yeah? Perfect.” Zayn buys a few boxes, along with a few pieces of fruit to bring home. “Thanks.”

Liam grins. “I’ll see you soon, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Zayn manages to not draw any attention as he enters the clinic and inquires for Harry’s room. To his surprise, Harry isn’t alone; Louis is already there, sitting beside his bed with his back to the door. Harry is lying back on a stack of pillows, and has some kind of tube attached to his arm, but his face is pink, and he’s laughing along with Louis.

“Have you been here all day?” Zayn’s voice makes Louis jump, and he looks up, startled.

“Yeah,” he answers. “I guess so.” Then, “The food here is just too good to pass up.” He glances at Harry, who barks out a laugh at that, as if it’s some kind of inside joke. Zayn smiles gratefully.

“How are you feeling?” Zayn asks as he hands Harry the bag from the shop. Harry peers in and pulls out a box of macaroons, delighted.

“I’m okay. They said I had a blood infection.”

“But he’ll be fine,” Louis intercepts. “My mum sees this all the time.”

“Sorry didn’t come by earlier,” Zayn says. “They said we probably shouldn’t be seen together. Since people might catch on that we’re - you know.”

“Yeah.” Harry nods. “It’s okay. Louis was keeping me company.”

“Everything is okay here?” It occurs to him that he has no power here, not like usual. But Harry’s his little brother, and he’s not past causing a ruckus to make sure he gets everything he needs.

“Yeah.” Harry glances at Louis. “We went for a walk earlier around the clinic. It’s really pretty.” He takes a small bite of a pink macaroon. “And the food really is actually okay. And Dr. Jay and all the nurses are very nice. She says we can go home in a couple of days.” He pauses. “It’s funny, I was always kind of scared of this place. I only ever heard bad things.”

Louis rolls his eyes. Zayn looks downward. “Yeah. Even to me - they always made it sound like some kind of dark, shadowy place. But it’s not. It’s just a normal town.” He pauses, unsure of how much more to say.

“Where’s Liam?” Louis asks.

“I think he’s still at the store,” he says, trying to maintain a neutral expression. He doesn’t know what to do about Liam. It’s not that he wants to avoid him. It’s just – he doesn’t want to think about it. He and Liam were getting somewhere, it felt like. But Liam likes girls, and it’s not like Zayn can just say something. He wouldn’t know where to start. He doesn’t even know where to start with himself.

And Harry – Harry, hooked up to all these tubes, still believing, somehow, that Zayn is going to return to the castle and the kingdom, that everything is going to go back to normal.

Nothing can ever go back to normal. Now, more than ever, he’s sure of that. His chest suddenly feels tight. “You should get some more rest,” he says.

 

 

 

“Catch!” Zayn watches Lux’s dad chasing her around the picnic table outside the lab before he catches her, throwing her over his shoulder as she squeals with delight.

He found out earlier today that Lux is four years old, loves fairies and fishing, and is transgender. Her parents, Tom and Lou, moved their family here 8 months ago. She doesn’t know why, or even that she’s different from anyone else; all she knows is that people aren’t calling her the wrong names anymore. And she’s happy.

He’s sitting beside her mom as Lux begins playing in the sandbox with some other kids and her dad. “How did you know?” Zayn asks. Lou had said he could ask her anything, and Zayn is just plucking up the courage to do it. “To, um, bring her here. How did you know it wasn’t, like, just a temporary thing?”

“A phase?” She tilts her head. “It lasted long enough, for one thing. When she first started talking, we did think that was all it was. Or, you know, that she was as boy who just had an active imagination and liked to play pretend. But it was more than that.”

Tom jumps in, brushing off his trousers as he joins them on the bench. “She’d scream when she wasn’t allowed to wear her dresses. She always wanted to be the princess. Plus there was the time she –“

“She used to ask us when it’d fall off.” Lou says matter-of-factly. “She wanted to hurt herself. And she started talking about wanting to die and coming back as a girl.” She gazes off for a moment, her eyes tearing. “You know, after so long - that was it.”

Zayn finds himself thinking, as he watches the two of them grab her hands to swing her in the air. He didn’t like wearing the dresses and everything they made him wear when he was a kid, but he never screamed about it. He lived with it; he never refused. And he didn’t mind all the dolls and other toys they gave him, though he never preferred them. He didn’t even complain when they called him a girl, a princess. That’s what he was. Plus, he likes boys; he likes Liam. He knows that shouldn’t mean anything, but maybe it does.

The thing is, this place isn’t the real world. Sure, these people are real, but for Zayn? It’s not a viable option. Maybe he never should have left; if ignorance truly is bliss, maybe he could just have just lived out his life not knowing that anything else existed.

Niall finds him there some time later, still sitting with his cold cup of tea. “What’re you thinking about?” Niall plops next to him. Today he’s wearing trousers beneath a long white lab coat, and his braids are tied back over his head.

“Nothing.” Zayn answers. He hesitates. “Just, like. I was talking to Lou and Tom, and thinking – I’m not like that.” Lux seems so carefree, so sure of herself, even at such a young age. “And Lottie, too – I didn’t _know,_ like she did. When I was a baby. It wasn’t that bad when I was little. And you said you knew when you were young too, before you were even a teenager. So maybe I’m not really –”

“Trans enough?” Niall finishes for him. “Listen. You’ve got to stop assigning points like that. It’s not about all that shit. It’s not all about your childhood or your past, not completely. It’s about you, and how you feel right now.” Zayn looks up sullenly.  “Everyone deals with it differently. Hell, you could have woken up yesterday and realized it for the first time in your life. That wouldn’t be any different.”

Niall looks into the distance for a moment. “Just because you didn’t have this, like, revelation when you were a tiny kid, doesn’t mean anything. It’s hard to understand or to even identify what’s wrong when you don’t have any vocabulary to describe it.”

“I just – I can’t go back to my old life.”

“Then don’t.” It’s so easy for Niall to say, when he doesn’t know what he’s talking about, who he’s talking about.

“It messes with my head,” Zayn confesses. “Like, why does it have to mean anything, that I want to wear certain things? It’s just _stuff_ , you know? The clothes.” He glances down. “Or my body. Why do I even have to care?”

Niall shrugs. “I know what you mean. We’re raised to associate things with an identity – but even if it’s just stuff _,_ it’s still _real_ , you know? It’s part of you. For me, what matters is that you do what makes you feel like _you_ , and don’t just, like, bottle it up and force yourself to be someone you’re not.” He tugs at his shirt. “You know, I’m not this shit. I’m not my braids, or the hair on my chest or this lab coat I have to wear, or my glasses. I’m me, Niall. That’s it. All of those things are just accessories that make me happy.”

“Then how do you even know what you are? Or whether you should change?”

“Where do you see yourself in ten, twenty years? When you imagine yourself in the future, what do you see?”

It’s been so long since he’s thought about it. He never really dared to imagine himself in the future. His job, sure. The delegation and reading and writing letters, all the parts he knew he could handle. But himself?

“I don’t know,” he confesses. “I guess I’ve always imagined my father.”

“And what about now? Because I see Zayn. He’s tall, kinda lanky.” He pokes Zayn’s side. “He has cheekbones to die for, and he has brooding dark eyes, but everyone knows he’s a big softy behind them.”

Zayn smiles, looking away. Yeah – that description sounds like him. It’s funny, he suddenly realizes, that all of this thinking about himself and his appearance isn’t throwing him into a spiral of buzzing discord. In fact, since he’s been here, he’s hardly ever thought about what he was wearing or shrunk at the way people addressed him or felt that pall of heavy, nameless discomfort that he’s always felt. Niall’s description didn’t make him cringe. It just felt right.

He watches Lux, so happy and free to just be herself. He thinks he could be like that.

He turns back to Niall, and he gives a shy nod. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess that’s me. I mean – I think that’s what I see, too, when I think of myself.”

Zayn. He’s handsome, and he’s confident and he’s strong. He looks like his dad, and people respect him the same way they respected his dad. Zayn – could he be the King?

“Well then,” Niall says, clapping him on the back lightly. “There you go. That might be your answer. Now come on, it’s time to go in. I want you to meet everyone.”

By the end of the afternoon, Zayn has learned a lot about the trans people who inhabit this town and farther. Some of them don’t care about clothing or their names. Some take hormones to change their bodies, or bind their chests or their groins; others don’t. Some people find it important to assimilate and pass as one or the other, and others are comfortable not conforming, inhabiting some space in between or somewhere else entirely. Some people know it from birth. And others, like Zayn, felt something was wrong, but didn’t quite know what or have the words to describe what they were feeling. The spectrum is huge, even among the people in this small town.

Most importantly, Zayn has learned that he’s not alone. People like him are everywhere, lands away, farther than he’s ever gone or can even imagine. The world is filled with people and places he never knew of, all of them somehow sharing this connection with him. And all of them are welcome to live freely in this town. Many of them had to give up everything else to come here.

And he could do something about it. Or, he _could have_ done something. He’s still not sure. He doesn’t know what he could do, either. But he does know that even a small act can have a huge effect, just like when his grandmother gave her blessing for her brother, Zayn’s great-uncle, to marry another prince. The prospect was unheard of at the time, but with her poised and steadfast ruling, it became both legally and socially sanctioned, just like that.

But then, Zayn is not the monarch anymore. Not really. Right? He doesn’t even know what’s happening with the kingdom after all this time. He hasn’t allowed himself to care, until he catches up with Louis and Liam for dinner in the evening. Sitting comfortably between them in front of a plate of fried fish, he summons the courage to ask.

“Have you heard any news about the kingdom?” he asks slowly.

A silent look passes between them.

“What?”

“The messengers have been saying there are rumblings of war,” Louis says matter-of-factly. “They’re not sure what’s going on, exactly, but it sounds like the East might try to separate into its own faction...”

Zayn places down his fork, his appetite suddenly gone. He knew this would happen. “What if I went back?”

Louis’ eyebrows shoot up. “You think you could help?”

“They need to sit down and talk. We could negotiate a deal.” He closes his eyes. He could try, at least.

“I think you could do it,” Liam speaks up, quietly. ”Of course you could.”

“Really?” Zayn opens his eyes in surprise.

Liam gives him a strange, small smile. “Yeah.” He looks into his eyes for a beat, then looks away. “I should go back to the store, though.” Louis throws him a look as he pushes back from the table, leaving half a plate of food.

“I do too,” Louis says, turning back to Zayn. “For the record. If that’s what you want to do, then you should do it.”

“But what about me? Everything else?” he runs his hands through his hair. This isn’t realistic.

Louis shrugs. “You could figure it out,” he says, as if it’s just that easy. Then, he raises a hand in the air. “Mum!” he waves.  Zayn follows his line of sight to a middle-aged woman with brown hair tied back in a messy ponytail. He’s never met Jay, but he can identify the resemblance immediately: they share the same sharp eyes, the same little smile and round chin.

She presses a kiss to Louis’ forehead. “Lou-bear. I’m surprised to see you out here, instead of - “

“Mum, this is my friend Zayn,” he interrupts. “He was hoping to get a chance to talk with you.”

“When you have time,” Zayn adds, a little sheepish.

Louis nudges him in the side. “Sh, I’m trying to help you with my favorite-kid-privilege.” He grins wide, and she swats at his shoulder and laughs.

He’s immediately drawn in by her kind eyes. “It’s nice to meet you, Zayn,” she says warmly. “Contrary to what my son says, I can’t give him any special privileges - “

“That’s okay,” Zayn says quickly.

“- but I do happen to have a bit of free time later today. My office, in about an hour?”

“Really?” Zayn nods quickly. “Yeah. That would be great. Thank you.”

“Thank you,” Louis parrots sweetly, and she laughs at him again, patting his head fondly before walking on her way.

Waiting outside her office is more terrifying than Zayn thought. He’s seen doctors before, of course, but this one seems somehow different, more momentous and important and _personal_. Louis says that they’ll probably just talk, but Zayn doesn’t even know where to start.

The appointment is all professional, even though Zayn begins by stumbling through the words of telling her why he’s here. “ _Gender dysphoria_ ,” she says as she writes it on the top of the clipboard. “That’s the official name.”

 _Dysphoria._ Zayn’s memory flits back to those moments in his life when he felt so wrong. Having a word for all of it, everything makes so much more sense, tying together the unsettling malaise he’s felt since he was so young. He wishes he knew it earlier.

He doesn’t want to reveal who he is, but it seems inevitable when she sits him down to fill out the rest of his charts.

“Right, let’s get a little bit about your background. Where are you from?”

“Arendelle, center.” He clears his throat. Her eyebrow twitches upward, but she doesn’t say anything. It sounds posh and proper when he puts it that way, and he supposes that it is.

“Any known health problems?”

“Nothing that I know of.”

“Are your parents still living?”

“No.” He swallows.

She looks up. “I’m sorry, love.”

“It’s alright,” he shrugs. “It was a while ago.”

“What happened?”

He gulps. She’s going to find out. She was going to find out sooner or later.

“How much did Louis. Um. Tell you about me?” he asks instead. She places down her clipboard.

“Not much,” she says. “Why?”

He takes a few breaths. Coming out and saying that he was transgender was difficult enough. Coming out as the potential heir of the entire kingdom, to one of the leading figures in a town he’s pretty well sure doesn’t care for the whole monarchy in the least? That’s another beast entirely.

“I’m – um.” He flounders. “MybirthnamewasZanirah,” he bursts out, all in one breath, looking up guiltily.

“I don’t need to know – oh.” He can see the moment it registers in her mind. Her eyes widen, mouth gaping open. “Oh, shit.” She covers her mouth with one hand.

“Yeah.”

“Shit, sorry, that was unprofessional,” she laughs, and it actually puts him at ease a little. She looks up again. “So you’re saying you’re – “

“Yeah.” He nods.

“I’d heard that the – that you had left, abruptly, after the ball, but I didn’t know what happened.” It’s a relief, really, that the specifics haven’t spread. It happened too fast.

He clears his throat. “I couldn’t – I couldn’t take it anymore. I know it’s dumb, in my position, but to be.” He swallows. “Queen.” The word feels sticky in his mouth now, like it’s not right.

She sighs. “Oh, darling. It’s never easy. It’s always hard. Maybe even harder in some ways, with all of that on your shoulders, and with you being in the public eye.”

“I tried,” he says. “My whole life, I’ve tried.” He closes his eyes. “I think I always knew.” He swallows. “But after – after my parents died, I kind of shut down.”

“I’m sorry. It must have been so difficult to go through that. And so young.” Zayn winces.

“And now I’ve really messed everything up.” Zayn grimaces. “Maybe. I don’t know. I just – I don’t know where to go from here.”

“You don’t have to, love.” She reaches out slowly and gives his shoulder a gentle touch, kind and motherly. Their eyes meet, and he exhales.

She returns to her clipboard. “Let’s finish getting your history, and we’ll go forward from there, alright?”

“Okay.”

It still feels like dream the next morning, a complicated, confusing, but ultimately sort of exciting dream. He’s taken the first step. Only more appointment, plus bloodwork, and then they’ll give him the first dose.

She’d gone over it with him a few times, asking whether he’s sure. He is. He’s not sure what he’ll do about everything else in his life - the kingdom, his brother, Liam - but he knows he wants this.

When he comes downstairs in the morning, Louis and Liam are chatting over mugs of tea. Liam glances up and sets down his mug.

“Good morning,” Liam says, eyes focused on the wall behind him. “I was just heading back out.” With that, he ducks out the door. Louis raises an eyebrow, and Zayn flops down on the sofa. It’s too early for feelings.

“You didn’t tell Liam, did you?” Zayn asks anxiously. Louis whips his head around.

“What?”

“About me.”

“Fuck no. Why?”

“He’s acting – nevermind. Forget it.” He takes a breath.

Louis narrows his eyes. “I wouldn’t tell him. ‘s not for me to tell, is it? Unless you want me to.”

“No, no. Don’t.”

Louis sighs. “What’s this about?”

Zayn throws his head into his hands. “I don’t know.”

“It doesn’t, by any chance, have anything to do with the way you’ve been following each other around like lost puppies for the past week, and then acting all squirrely about getting too close, does it?”

“What do you -” Zayn sputters. “No.”

Louis gives him a look.

After a long moment, Zayn looks down. “I’ve always sort of fancied him,” he says, voice small.

“I’m completely shocked,” Louis deadpans.

Zayn groans. ”I thought – I don’t know what I thought. I always knew it could never happen, and then – and now, I don’t know what to think.” He looks downward and squeezes his eyes shut.

They sit in silence for a beat, until Louis sighs dramatically. “Zayn,” Louis says, his commanding but exasperated tone catching Zayn’s attention. “Liam is fucking gone for you, mate.”

Zayn whips his head up. “What?”

“He has been, basically forever. Well, I didn’t put it together until a few days ago; I just knew for years he’s been sneaking off somewhere near the center town, always all fluttery and excited about it. I didn’t get it. Half the time he didn’t even have a delivery to pick up. I checked!” His eyes widen as if he’s making another realization. “And skipping our Yule party. He spent it with you, didn’t he?” He points an accusatory finger. Zayn nods slowly, sheepish. “For a long time he’s been lovesick, like, really fucking lovesick,” Louis declares. “And it was all for you.”

Zayn feels his face heat. “Then why is he acting like he hates me?”

“You know Liam, right? You know he can be a little flighty, make - how do I put this delicately – stupid decisions to hide the truth.” He sighs. “He probably thinks _you_ don’t want _him._ ”

“But that’s not true.“

“He doesn’t know that.“ Louis shakes his head. “Didn’t you tell me that you basically studied diplomacy? You know, _communication_ between parties with mutual interests?”

“I did,” Zayn nods, slowly.

Louis smirks. “So? Shouldn’t you see that the _interest_ is _mutual?_ ” He wags his eyebrows.

Zayn sighs. “But this is different.” He picks at his shirt. “It’s complicated.” He pauses. “And even if he used to like me. Now that I’m gonna – I mean, I’m a guy! He wouldn’t be interested.”

Louis raises an eyebrow. “Why’s that?”

“Because he’s not - you know.”

“Interested in _men_?” Louis snorts. “Ha. Try telling that one to Charles B-. You know what, never mind.” He shakes his head. “Zayn, listen. I know him pretty well. I’ve known him for practically my entire life. I think it’s safe to say that there is a very high likelihood that he would still be interested.”

“Really?”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Yes, Zayn. Just talk to him.”

Zayn considers Louis’ words as he wanders around town that morning. He sits at a bench a distance outside the shop, afraid to go inside. He picks at his trousers. He can see Liam through the window puttering around inside and occasionally coming outside to pick up boxes. He’s always loved observing Liam.

Suddenly, Liam glances in his direction and stops. Their eyes meet.

 

 

 ❄ _19_ ❄

Zayn gets wasted on the final day of Yule.

Harry is out at some party with his friends. Everyone in the castle is out at some party or another - everyone except for Zayn.

He doesn’t officially have the key to the liquor cabinet, but he’s seen James slip it into the drawer by the cupboard enough times. No one will notice if he swipes a bottle, or two, or three; and anyway, by the time anyone does notice, he’ll be the Queen.  

Zayn is already getting tipsy when he staggers outside with the second bottle of wine, having successfully drunk away the realization that this is his last Yule when no one will question where he is, when he won’t be expected to make an appearance, when he doesn’t hold the responsibility of the entire kingdom on his shoulders.

He’s not thinking about that as he plops down into the soft snow behind the garden wall. He has the bottle in one hand and a pocketknife in the other as he struggles to pry out the cork. The sky is dark, the light from the hanging lanterns dancing across the white snow. He closes his eyes to steady his hand.

The silence gives way to the sound of distant footsteps crunching through the snow. They’re soft at first, like a deer in the distance, but then they come closer. Zayn squints open one eye and finds Liam looking down at him, grinning, a green parka over his broad shoulders.

“Hi.”  

“Hey!” Zayn waves, unable to hide his happy surprise. ”Shouldn’t you be at a party?”

“Parties are boring,” Liam shrugs, teeth glinting white in the lantern light. “Wanted to see you.”

Zayn nods, secretly pleased. “I thought you were a mutant deer.”

Liam giggles and sits down beside him. “Maybe I am.”

They pass the bottle back and forth until it’s empty and they're both filled with laughter. He can’t be sure if it’s Liam’s presence or the alcohol, but suddenly everything seems brighter, and nothing is funnier than building a little snowman with a wine bottle for a head.  

Zayn stretches out to lie down in the snow, wriggling to make a sort of lopsided snow angel. He can feel snow gathering under his hat, against his head, and it’s _cold._ He sits up on his elbows and pulls the beanie off of his head, his long hair suddenly free to flow down, and – oh.

Liam is looking at him funny now. He realizes that Liam has never seen him without a cap or beanie on his head; they’re always outside, and Zayn is always careful.

His stomach fills with a burst of fear, but then he realizes that he hasn’t left the castle – not for a public appearance, anyway - in years. No one knows what the princess looks like anymore, especially not anyone from outside town. He starts laughing to himself.

Liam cocks his head, and he starts laughing too. “Your hair is looong,” he slurs.

“Yeah,” Zayn agrees, still laughing.

Liam reaches out to poke at it in wonder, and Zayn lets him, arching into the whisper of the touch. “Didn't know it was so long,” Liam says.

“I fuckin’ hate it,” Zayn declares.

Liam’s eyes widen. He reaches to pick up the discarded pocketknife. “We should cut it off!”

If he knows anything at all, he knows that a princess shouldn’t go hacking off her hair with a dull knife. But at that moment, Zayn has never heard a better idea in his life.

“Cut it off!” he chants. Liam grins wider, and Zayn scoots so that his back is facing him. Liam grabs a thick lock of his hair. A moment later, Zayn hears a sharp _snick,_ and a huge chunk of hair falls to the ground. Then there’s another, and another. His head feels infinitely lighter with every slice.

“Hold on.” Liam starts hacking off smaller bits now. Zayn is sure he doesn’t know what he’s doing, but whatever it is, he’s sticking his tongue out in concentration and pivoting from side to side as he slices away.

“There,” he says finally, stepping back. “How’s it feel?”

Zayn runs a hand over his head. It’s nearly short enough that it feels spiky as he runs his hand back and forth through it. It feels foreign, but he immediately loves it. “I love it,” he declares.

Liam grins, and Zayn moves closer in response. After a moment Liam lifts a hand and starts to pet Zayn’s head, too. Zayn closes his eyes and arches into the touch.

When he opens his eyes, he suddenly realizes just how close Liam’s face is to his. Their breaths come out white in the air and curl together between them. Liam’s eyes are bright. Zayn’s eyes flicker down to his lips.

“It’s a new year,” Liam says. His hand rests by Zayn’s shoulder now. The touch is warm, and Zayn nuzzles into it.

Liam looks him in the eye. “Can I kiss you?”

It comes out of nowhere, but at once it also feels completely natural. Zayn can’t remember why he’s never thought to do it before. He can’t place it. All he knows is that he wanted to, has always wanted to; he _wants_ to. All he sees is Liam’s jaw, his lips. Liam’s hand moves on his shoulder, gently plays with the newly short hair at the nape of his neck.

He knows that he’s drunk. But he also knows what he wants. He wants this.

Zayn leans forward and kisses him.

Liam’s lips are freezing, even against Zayn’s, and he lets out a squeak of surprise, but it’s replaced by silence as their lips move together, Liam’s hand holding to the back of his neck, Zayn’s moving to the small of Liam’s back. The air around them is cold, but everything feels warm, like fire. He wants to do it again and again until it’s all he can feel, until he can’t even breathe anymore.

“Why didn’t we do this ages ago?” Zayn exhales against the side of his neck when they break apart for air.

“I dunno.” Liam pauses, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “But I want to do it again.”

“Forever,” Zayn agrees.

 ❄ _20_ ❄

Liam walks toward him, jaw set. Zayn scoots over on the bench, but Liam doesn’t sit. He wants to say something, but Liam speaks first.

“I’m just going to say it,” Liam says with determination. “Because if I don’t… I don’t know. I just have to say it. And you don’t have to say anything, okay?” He takes a breath.

“What?” Zayn doesn’t know what he’s saying.

“I always hoped… I mean. Before I knew, I just always hoped that maybe, you and I.” He looks up. “I’ve always liked you.”

Zayn’s heart beats out of his chest.

Liam looks downward, his eyebrows furrowed. “I know it’s dumb. But I didn’t know who you were, and you were so _perfect._ And then I found out...” He looks up. “I know nothing can happen now. But I really want to be your friend. If that’s… I don’t even know if that’s possible, with you going back. It probably isn’t.”

The words finally make their way into Zayn’s brain. Liam wanted him. Liam _wants_ him.

“Liam?” he interrupts.

Liam looks up. His eyes are wide and warm, the morning sunlight hitting them so they shine with flecks of gold.  Zayn forms the words carefully.

“You know, you were the only friend I ever really had. You always treated me like a normal person, like a real friend, and I loved spending time with you more than anything else in the world. And then I realized it wasn’t just because you were my friend.” He looks up. “Kissing you was the best decision I’ve ever made.”

Liam’s eyes widen. “You remember,” he says. “I wasn’t sure you did. You were wasted.”  He pauses. Then, “I wasn’t sure you would want to remember.”

“Why would you think that?”

His cheeks turn pink. “’Cause – you’re bloody _royalty_. It’s not right. I’m a street rat.” He shrugs.

“No you’re not.” Then, “I thought maybe you didn’t remember, too.”

“I wasn’t that drunk,” Liam confesses. “I mean, it was only half a bottle of wine.” He steps closer.

“And none of that matters,” Zayn continues. “I always wanted you. And, I still want you, no matter what happens. I don’t care. We’ll figure it out. I want you so much.”  He sways farther into Liam’s orbit, unable to resist, until they’re a hair’s width apart.

He can’t do this.

He wants to love Liam, desperately. But he has something else under his skin, something bigger.

He can’t be Liam’s girlfriend. Zayn wants to be someone’s _boyfriend._ The thought makes tendrils of warmth grow in his stomach and curl around his heart. Liam’s boyfriend.

He steps back. Liam’s face falls.

Zayn takes a slow breath and wills his throat from constricting. “I have to tell you something.”

Liam takes a step back. “What?”

“Not – it’s not about you,” Zayn assures him. “It’s something about me.”

“Okay.” Liam’s brow furrows into concern.

Zayn looks away. He takes a breath, the moment stretching until he can’t take it any longer.

“I think I’m a boy.” He winces, the words ringing in his ears. His heart pounds. “I mean, I should be a boy – I mean, I am a boy. I’m trans. And I want – my name is Zayn.” He looks up.

Liam nods slowly. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Zayn stands stunned, deflated from the rush of adrenaline with nowhere to go. His hands are shaking.

“Is that it?” Liam pries gently. Zayn nods, speechless.

“I’m happy for you. And I’m really glad you’re telling me. How long have you known?”

“I don’t know.” Zayn answers hoarsely, still caught off-guard. “Always, I think, in a way. But being here – I’d never considered it, really, until seeing everything, and everyone, here.” He looks up cautiously. “I understand if this changes everything you said.”

Liam frowns. “What do you – oh, Z. Zayn.” The name slipping out from Liam’s lips sends a spark through him. “Zayn.” Liam’s face melts into something impossibly soft. “This doesn’t change anything.”

Zayn feels his eyes burning all of a sudden, his throat clenching with the release. He’s still shaking. Liam opens his arms. After a moment of hesitation, Zayn falls into them, Liam’s embrace firm and warm and strong. He tries not to cry.

“You know I don’t see you any differently, right?” Liam says finally. “I sort of - I wondered. I didn’t know, but I figured, maybe...”

“What do you mean?” Zayn asks, pulling back just enough to look up at his warm brown eyes.

“I just – you were _you_. With your hats, and the horses, and the way you talked to me. I guess you didn’t really act like a girl - not that that means anything. I know I couldn’t really know.” His face twists. “You just always acted like _you_.” He waves his arms, as if that’s the explanation, and it’s enough.

“So,” Zayn starts. “What you said earlier - “

Liam sighs, one hand still ghosting on Zayn’s side. “I’ve always been madly attracted to you, and nothing could ever really change that.” He looks down. “And I’m here with you no matter what.” He turns his head. “If you’ll have me.“

A moment passes before Zayn can catch his eye. It’s a lot to take in, but Liam is so warm and open, and Zayn still feels a bit helpless to escape. Some part of him is still telling him to stop, that he can't go on, that it’s not real, that his feelings are out of control and this can’t possibly work.

But he wants this. It’s all coming back to this. He looks up again, a bit incredulous, just to be sure that it’s not a mistake, that he’s not misinterpreting the way that Liam is looking at him now, wide-eyed and licking his lips. Zayn moves closer.

And slowly, gently, Liam tucks his fingers under Zayn’s chin and answers the question without being asked by pressing his lips against Zayn’s. Zayn turns pliant against him, kissing back with everything he has.

Everything in his life feels like it’s been happening so fast: his leaving the castle, discovering this new thing about himself, coming here – everything speeding, swirling around him like a fog of snow, like he might be swept away at any moment.

But this? Him and Liam, pressed against each other, hands on each other’s necks, lips moving against each other in a frantic rhythm - this is such a long time in the making that it feels like precisely the correct speed. It calms his racing mind and grounds him in this exact moment, where nothing matters but Liam’s hands, eyes, lips.

“I love you, you know.” He murmurs against Liam’s lips, the words slipping out without warning.

“I think I’ve loved you since the first time you took me to the garden,” Liam responds. “From that moment, you ruined me for everyone else.”

Zayn kisses him again, until he’s breathless, until Liam’s hand falls to his waist and he falls back into the real world.

He pulls back. “Even if I did this. If I changed.” He gestures vaguely to himself.

Liam touches his chin. Zayn feels himself blush. ”Zayn, it’s always just been you. I want you to be happy.” Liam scratches his neck. “Uh, I’ve never really been about the outer packaging, you know? I mean, you’re stunning, obviously, and that will never change. But neither will your heart or your mind, everything else I love about you”

Zayn looks away.

“You know you could’ve told me.” Liam squeezes his hand gently. “I don’t care about that stuff.”

“I didn’t even – I wouldn’t have known how to say it. I’m just finding the words now.” He shivers.

“That’s okay,” Liam says reassuringly. He runs his fingers across Zayn’s knuckles. “You’ve met Lottie, yeah? And Niall.”

“Yeah. I’ve talked to them a bit.” Zayn swallows. “And to Jay.”

“You’ve seen what they can do?” Liam says softly. “With the hormones, and all that?”

“Yeah.” He nods. “I think I’d like that.” Then he adds, “I’m scared.”

Liam squeezes his hand. “That’s okay.”

“I don’t know what any of this means.” He pauses, and Liam cocks his head. “About me – my future,” he clarifies, swallowing thickly.

“What do you want?”

“I want you,” he says simply, the only thing he’s sure of right now. “And I want peace, for the kingdom. I don’t want to keep disappointing everyone.”

“Do you want to go back?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” He doesn’t want to think about it right now. He knows he needs to, but when he looks into Liam’s eyes again, he has more immediate concerns. He stands up on his toes and kisses him.

 

 

 

As expected, Louis is insufferable. “Finally!” he whoops when he spots them sitting by the fire pit hand in hand that evening. “I knew I finally talked some sense into you two,” he crows as he sits beside them. Zayn can’t do anything except grin.

“So you’re gonna be a prince,” Louis nudges him. “What’re your parents gonna say?”

“Maybe,” Liam corrects, squeezing Zayn’s hand. “And they wouldn’t believe it,” he chuckles.

“I wouldn’t want to be a prince. Too much work. Sitting around, eating fancy meals and talking to rich snobs. No thanks.”

Zayn giggles. “You’re right. There is a lot of that.”

“I know. You told me.”

“But it’s also a lot of good stuff. You get to change people’s lives. You get to talk to all different kinds of people and figure out the best way to help everyone live better lives.”

“What are you talking about?” comes Niall’s voice. He plops beside them, and Zayn takes a moment to remember that Niall doesn’t know who he is.

“The advantages of being a prince,” Louis answers. “I think it’d be insufferably boring.”

“I think it’d be okay,” Liam shrugs. “You get to travel, meet all kinds of people. Do good.”

“Plus, the food,” Niall says. “I’ve heard legends about those royal meals.”

“No thanks,” Louis wrinkles his nose. “No way.”

When Louis is distracted, Liam leans over to whisper. “He’s only defensive because he’s been spending all of his free time with your brother,” he says. “Do you think we should say something?”

He grimaces. “No. Let them figure it out. Harry is still engaged.” He sighs. “You should see them together, though. I walked in yesterday and Louis was fluffing his pillows.”

“He’s gone,” Liam agrees fondly.

“Harry?” Niall inquires. “I don’t even know who the bloke is, but spending five minutes with Louis, it’s all he can talk about. _Harry said this, Harry did that._ Insufferable.” He cackles, and Zayn and Liam crack up, too. Niall puts an arm around each of them. “I’m happy for you two, though.”

Zayn can’t help his smile.

 

 

 

Zayn wakes up in Liam’s bed the next morning. He’s lying up against Liam’s back, one arm draped over his waist, the way they fell asleep talking last night. He turns over on to his back.

He should feel better, he knows. But he wakes up feeling worse. Dysphoria has always come in waves, ebbing and flowing, and right now he just wants to wrap around himself and never leave. He pulls the duvet higher around his neck and turns over away from Liam, curling inward.

He’s not wearing a binder; Niall made it clear that he shouldn’t ever sleep in them, even the fancy kinds that the tailors make here. So his back doesn’t ache, but he can still feel something wrong.

“Z?” Liam says blearily from behind him. He rolls over and moves against Zayn’s back, kissing the top of his shoulder. He tries not to flinch. That’s all they did last night: kiss, and talk, and kiss some more.

“Zayn?” He sounds more concerned now. Zayn wraps his arms around himself like a cocoon as Liam sits up and cranes his neck around to catch his eye. “What’s wrong?”

”Nothing.” I just – “ he sinks down further in the bed. How could Liam ever want to deal with this, with _him_ , when he gets like this? And he can’t even handle Liam touching is shoulder right now. “It’s so complicated. I don’t know if I can give you everything you want.” There it is.

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean,” Zayn says, looking straight ahead at the wall. “Me. My body. I can’t – it doesn’t line up.” The idea of dating, of being married, being _intimate_ , never really crossed his mind before, not in a tangible way. Now that it does, it sends him into a panic. Zayn can’t even stand looking at himself in the mirror. How is he supposed to stand someone else looking at him?

“Zayn,” Liam says softly. “I don’t care about that.”

“But what if I can’t…” What if he can’t let it get any further, ever?

“That’s fine. We don’t have to do anything, not until you’re not ready. I’d wait however long you need. Forever, even.”

“Really?”

“There’s no reason to go fast. I only just got to kiss you yesterday. We’ll figure it out.”

Zayn’s breath slows. “Okay.” He feels like he knows nothing, but maybe it’s enough for now. He turns over and sits up, duvet still around him, and looks up at Liam. After a moment, Liam reaches out a hand to thumb at the corner of Zayn’s jaw.

“You’re my boy,” he says simply. Those simple words make Zayn’s heart swell up, and he leans forward to catch Liam in a kiss.

Maybe he shouldn’t be surprised when he opens the door after breakfast, and Louis is standing outside. But despite the smirk that flits across his face, Louis doesn’t make any snarky or gloating comment. He hardly even spares them a glance.

“Have you heard?” He asks, breathless.

“What?”

“Come with me.” He leads them briskly to the town square, where a small man is frantically gesturing in the air while he talks to a group of people. “The messenger just came in. He told Niall.” Zayn spots Niall’s blond hair bobbing in the crowd, and Louis goes in and grabs him, bringing him back.

“What’s going on?” Zayn asks again.

“War is breaking out.” Niall grimaces. “They’re saying that now that the Queen has absconded – “

“That the kingdom is ripe for the taking,” Louis finishes shortly. “In so many words.”

After Niall drags Louis back into the crowd, Zayn paces back and forth. “I have to do something.” But he can’t; that’s the thing.

“What’s the problem?” Liam asks.

“It’s the North and the East. They’ve been fighting for a while. See, originally, the river defined the border between them,” Zayn explains. “And it’s technically part of the East. Only, every year when the snow melts, it widens the river into the North, so it’s like their territory is shrinking.”

“Why is it broken up like this in the first place?”

“When the kingdom was made and the regions united, two hundred years ago, that was part of the agreement. The regions all agreed to consolidate under a central kingdom, but they maintain independence in their economies, so each province can decide for itself where and when to build.”

“I s’pose that’s fair.”

“But things have changed. They had an agreement, the East providing manufacturing goods while the North and South have more agriculture, since they have more water. But they were already running low. They had a cold Fall, colder than usual for the past few years, and their harvests weren’t that bountiful.  Meanwhile the West has a surplus of ice blocks, but nothing to trade it for.” He rubs his forehead. “And so all of this debt and unrest and resentment is growing.”

“It sounds like a misunderstanding,” Liam observes. “If only everyone could just wait, they could pay each other back.”

“It is,” Zayn agrees. Of course, the word-of-mouth is like a wildfire, you never know where it’s going to go and what kinds of outlandish rumors have been amplified over the past week. If he was in the castle, he could have messengers go out and try to settle everything. But of course, he can’t.

Explaining the situation to Liam helps somehow, just like it always has, back when they were kids and were able to talk about everything. “Thank you,” Zayn says out of nowhere. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too.” Then, “What do you think you’re going to do?”

“I don’t know. I want to help people. I want to be a leader. I can. I just don’t know if _I_ can, as me. And I’m not going back if I can’t be me.”

Liam shakes his head. “You shouldn’t,” he says firmly.

“And I don’t know how all of this would work.”

“Have you talked to Harry?”

 

 

 

Harry is napping, but his eyelids flutter open when Zayn enters. He’s visited a few times over the past couple of days, and Harry has seemed fine. Today, though, he looks tired.

“Are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah,” Harry yawns.

“Have you heard what’s going on?”

Harry nods. “Louis told me. The East is finally fragmenting.” They sit silent for a beat, and it occurs to Zayn that this is the first time they’ve spoken alone since the fight at the cabin.

“I’m sorry, H. About everything.” Zayn ducks his head.

“I’m sorry, too,” Harry says. “It’s your life. I shouldn’t tell you how to live.”

“But you’re right.” He sighs. “I don’t know what to do. I want to help. I can. I just.” He swallows. “I also need to be me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I have to tell you something.” He blurts out the words, and then his heart starts racing in his chest. “I have to tell you something,” he repeats, “and I don’t know how, and I don’t even fully understand it, but I know it. I’ve always known it, and I need you to know. You might not even want anything to do with me afterwards, but I need to tell you,” he finishes lamely.

“Okay,” Harry says slowly, green eyes wide and laced with confusion.

“I think – “ he starts, and then his throat constricts. He can’t breathe. He squeezes his eyes shut. Breathe. Breathe. He looks up and Harry is watching him with the same child-like curiosity he has with everything. He can do this. “Do you remember when we were really little, we used to play dress-up?”

Harry nods. “But we weren’t allowed to,” he says with a frown.

“But we still did, when no one was around.” Harry’s mouth turns up at the corners. “And you used to put on – well, anything, and I used to put on trousers, and dad’s shirts.”

“I used to dress up like a clown,” Harry says with a laugh.

Zayn swallows. “It wasn’t like that for me.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s like the opposite. It was like, every day of my life I was playing dress-up, wearing dresses and being the princess. And those times with you were when I felt closest to the _actual_ me.”

Harry tilts his head quizzically, frowning. Zayn needs to finish this.

“And that’s because I think – no, I _know_ – I’m not a girl or a woman, or whatever. I’ve never felt that way. “

“I don’t think I understand.”

Zayn rakes a hand through his hair.

“I’m a guy. I feel like a man. Like that’s what I should have been all along. I’m – it’s like I was born the wrong way.” He pauses. “I’m just wrapping my head around it now. But it’s not rare, especially here. There are other people, and the doctors here – Dr. Jay – really understand it.”

Harry’s eyes blink with the beginnings of understanding. “That’s why you don’t want to be the Queen.”

Zayn nods. “It’s just – it’s not who I am. I’ve tried so hard. My whole life, I’ve tried. And I’ve hated it. I don’t hate all of it, but – the way I was supposed to present myself. It never fit, never.”

Harry stares for a long time. “You were always arguing,” he says finally, “about what to wear. And you weren’t allowed to play with me.”

“I – I always knew I wasn’t right. I knew it, and mum and dad knew it. And I guess after a while, I figured it was best to leave you out of it.” He looks down. He wishes he could repeat the past, avoid alienating the only family he had left. “But you’ve always called me Z. Thank you for that.”

“It’s just your name.”

“I think – I’m going by Zayn now. I’ve had it in my head for a while.”

“Zayn,” Harry repeats.

“Do you hate me?” Zayn sniffs. He feels cracked open again. He wonders if this feeling will ever go away.

“No,” Harry says immediately. “I love you. It’s just a little weird. I guess – it’s like I have a brother now.”

“I was always jealous of you,” Zayn admits. “You, the way you looked like everything I wasn’t. I couldn’t do anything right, and you were just _you_ , charming and cute, and that was enough. I think it made me harsh on you sometimes. I’m sorry.”

“Jealous of me?” Harry almost laughs. “I always thought you were the one getting all the attention. You were so good at everything, and mum and dad spent so much more time with you. Since you’re the Quee – the heir, I mean.  I guess I didn’t consider that you were always under scrutiny. I just thought – you didn’t have time for me.” He pauses. “I should have known,” Harry says.

“I didn’t even know.” Zayn shrugs. “I didn’t want to ignore you, for the record,” Zayn says softly, toeing the sand. “I’m sorry you felt that way. Mum and dad. They told me not to play with you, that it wasn’t proper. I think they worried you were making me act more like a boy.  I’m sorry.” His head is spinning. “I always thought they liked you better. I couldn’t do anything well enough. And when they died – “ he can’t say it, can’t tell Harry the truth. “It was too much. I’m sorry for blocking you out.”

“It’s okay,” Harry says. Then, “I miss them.”

“Me, too.”

“We turned out okay, though.” Harry sits up slowly. “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.” He sighs. “Also, erm. Liam and I got together.”

“Really?” Harry’s eyes light up. “Louis and I knew it! I mean, he told me,” he corrects himself. “I’m glad. He’s great.”

“He is,” Zayn nods. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You’ll be out of here in a couple of days. Are you excited to see Nicholas?”

Harry looks sideways. His hands fidget.

“Did you mean it,” he asks carefully, “when you said, like, it didn’t count because we’d only just met?”

Zayn bites his lip. “I didn’t mean to be so harsh. You have a lot to learn about each other, yes, but it’s not up to me to decide when you know enough. Love only grows.“ He pauses. “And I was also thinking about the publicity,” he admits, “planning a big announcement and a big day for the kingdom.”

“Oh.” Harry wrings his hands.

Zayn senses something else is going on. “What’s this about?”

“Nothing,” Harry says quickly. “I just - it’s true that I don’t really know him, and things are changing.” He takes a sharp breath. “What if I feel – what if there was someone else? I mean, there isn’t. Not really. It’s not – but if I wanted something else.” He looks up helplessly. “Would that make more a terrible person?”

“No, Harry. I don’t think so.” Zayn puts a hand on his arm. “Follow your heart.”

“That sounds cheesy,” Harry protests. “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. I’d like to go back. I just don’t know if I can.”

He doesn’t know if he can be King. Even with his brother’s support. He’s gripped by a combination of hope and self-doubt. Because he wants to go back, and for the first time in forever, he feels like maybe he _could_.

As he passes out the door, his sight catches on the glass door. In his reflection in the glass, he still sees his mother’s daughter. His mum used to say he was part of a long line of strong women, that he should feel lucky for what he is, thankful because in other kingdom’s he couldn’t even be the heir.

Maybe he can’t do it.

If he goes back, he’ll be going against everything his parents ever wanted for him, and for the kingdom. And after what he did to them. He’ll bring shame, and his grandmother – she won’t be able to look at him. No one will. He’ll never be the figurehead he needs to be.

His eyes suddenly start to burn, and he can’t take it anymore. He steps into the first door he sees, an empty room. His head reels, and he presses his hands to his temples and squeezes his eyes shut. He just needs it all to stop. He counts his breaths. But then, he finally opens his eyes, and he sees that he’s not alone. Jay is standing beside the counter on the end of the room measuring something out in a syringe.

“You okay, love?” She asks softly. “Lou told me you’re thinking about going back. I think that’s incredibly brave. You can do it, and you know we can work something out, so you don’t have to come here every time you need – “

“It’s not what my mum and dad would have wanted,” he interrupts, the words flying out of his mouth without him even thinking.

“What?” She sets down what she was holding and steps toward him.

“Going back, and doing this.” All he sees is red. “After everything that happened – it’s my fault in the first place.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” he mumbles. He shakes his head, shakes away the thoughts, and turns back toward the door. He’s stopped by a touch on his shoulder.

“Love?”

He turns around. He stares at her forehead. It’s creased with concern. He inhales.

“Nothing,” he repeats. “Just, my mum and dad would be ashamed of me. They wouldn’t want this.” He covers his face with one hand.

“Your mum and dad would be proud,” she corrects softly.

“You don’t know that.” His throat feels choked. “My mum and dad _died_ because of me, because of this,” he says, muffled. The air is silent. Then he feels a soft presence beside him, an arm wrapped around him, bringing him to sit down on the chair.

“What do you mean?” she asks, her voice gentle.

He can’t hold himself together. He can’t do it. His eyes fill with tears.

He lets it out.

He tells her about how he got caught dressing in his dad’s clothes, how they used to fight over what he would wear, about the horses and how he always wanted to be treated like Harry, and about the morning they left when told his mum he hated her. “I didn’t even say goodbye,” he sobs.

“Oh, love. You have to know it wasn’t your fault.”

“If they hadn’t been upset – if they hadn’t been rushing, distracted over what a fuckup their kid, their _heir_ was, maybe they would’ve noticed the storm. Or left earlier. They hated me. They did, and they still would,” he wrenches out. His throat constricts and he brings his hands back to his face, shaking with sobs in the arms of a stranger.

“Zayn?” she says softly, when he finally quiets into silent sobs. He rubs his face.

“That’s not my name.”

“Zayn, Sweetheart,” she starts, “You know your parents wouldn’t hate you - didn’t hate you. You have to know it wasn’t your fault. That’s too much of a burden to put on yourself. You were a child.”

“And I know that I might not be able to speak as a Queen or a King,” she goes on, “but I can speak as a mum – and yours sounds like a good one. And I can tell you, as a mum, that any good parent will love their children, fiercely, no matter what.”

“And you know what?” She rubs a circle into his shoulderblade, and he sniffs, barely able to hold it together, just focusing on her words and her touch. “We also know that our kids love us, too, no matter what they say in the moment. When Fizzy was about six,” she smiles, “she went through a phase of saying she hated me every time I didn’t let her have an extra stick of candy floss or stay awake past dark. She knew it got on my nerves. And I’ll admit it did. I didn’t like it. But I knew she didn’t mean it. You have to understand that.”

She pauses before continuing. “Zayn, you also have to know that mums aren’t perfect,” she says, softer. “We’re human. Queen or not. We make mistakes. I know she didn’t quite understand you then. And I know I can’t tell you for certain what she would think today. But love, I can tell you, right now, as a mum, as a parent, and as someone who knows you and who’s spent time with you. Any parent would be incredibly lucky, and so incredibly proud, to have you as a son. I mean it.”

He’s crying again, sobs leaking out of him and shaking his shoulders as she sits beside him. He leans against her and she hugs him, holds him tight. “Let it out,” she murmurs.

He doesn’t know how long it takes until all the tears are gone.

 

 

 

“What if I go back, and they hate me?” he asks Liam later.

“Everyone loves you,” Liam corrects gently. “Everyone has always loved you. I don’t think that would change.” He kisses Zayn’s cheek. “I love you.”

“Yeah, but you're - “ Zayn sighs. “You're different. You knew me when you were a kid, you didn't know any better.”

“And Harry? Louis? Niall? What about them?”

“Harry's my _brother_ , he's obligated to. And Louis…I don’t know. He latched onto me like family.”

“And Niall?”

“Niall loves everyone.”

“Zayn, this sounds like a whole lot of excuses. We love you.”

“But I can’t be this perfect King or royalty and figurehead and shit. I can't.”

“Zayn,” he says softly. “Look. No one's asking you to be perfect. I'm not even asking you to go back. I'll stay here with you forever. You know I would, if that's what you wanted.”

Zayn swallows and looks away as Liam continues. “I just don't want you to give up on yourself. I never saw it at the time, but your whole life you've just been so bottled-up. So hard on yourself. And you don't deserve that, Zayn. You don't. You’re brilliant and kind, and you can do it. I know you can.” Liam’s eyes are welling up, his voice breaking a bit, and god, Zayn loves him. “I just think that maybe you owe it to yourself to try.”

 

 

 

A small crowd is gathered outside by the time they reach the main square, and Zayn knows at once that something is wrong.

“Someone is here,” someone says.

“They’re trying to take over.”

Zayn pushes through the crowd of strangers and familiar faces. In the center is a pair of tall men, intimidating men dressed in black.

“We are claiming this territory on behalf of the East,” one of them says. “And all its resources. Stand down, or we’ll come with an army.”

“You can’t take a sovereign territory,” Zayn speaks up loudly.

The man snorts. “Yeah? Well, go complain to the ruler of the kingdom.”

Zayn stands up taller. “I am the ruler of this kingdom.”

The man squints. From the background, he hears whispers, murmurs. He can hear a distinct voice from the front of the crowd. “Holy shit,” Niall whispers.

“Princess Zanirah?” the man says, taking a step back.

“It’s Zayn now,” he corrects smoothly.

“Holy shit!” Niall repeats, louder.

The man looks him up and down with skepticism. “But you absconded.” He laughs, but it’s a nervous laugh. Zayn doesn’t flinch. “Is this why your own brother isn’t with you?”

“Yes,” says the second soldier. “Where is Prince Harold?”

He hears the people behind him start stirring. The crowd parts, and Harry pushes through to stand beside him. Their eyes meet before Harry turns to look at the soldier.

“I am with him,” he says.

“Him?”

“And we order you to step down,” Harry says firmly.

“And return to the castle with us,” Zayn adds.

 

 

 

Their grandmother looks small and pale at the end of the corridor.

“Grandmama.” Harry rushes toward her, and they embrace, the cast around his broken arm resting on her shoulder.

“And you found Zanirah.” She teeters toward him, and he embraces her awkwardly. He takes a breath. This won’t be easy, but Harry is standing beside him.

“Grandmama,” he begins. “I’m sorry. We need to talk –“

“We need to talk,” she interrupts, voice strained. “Quickly.” She glances toward the end of the corridor. Only then does Zayn notice the raised voices coming from behind the door at the end of the hallway, yelling from the small conference room.

“They’re negotiating,” she says quietly, with some fear behind her voice.

“That’s good –“

“They’re negotiating how to split up the kingdom.”

“What?”

“The East – they’re staging a coup; they want to take over half of the North, at least.” She rubs her forehead. “This conflict has been brewing since your parents were in charge. I tried to put it off as much as possible, but these past winters have been harsh. The North has been unable to provide, and the East is out of patience. If we don’t do anything, I fear their militia will take over.”

So he can’t delay this. He thinks back to Niall, to Jay. He only hopes his plan will work.

He takes a breath and enters the room.

“Silence.” His voice doesn’t break. Everyone looks up, and he has command of the room.

“I have a solution,” he says: “Doncaster.”

“Doncaster?” The delegate from the East sneers, wrinkles her nose.

“Scientists in Doncaster have created new technology that allows them to grow crops all year. They have advanced medicine, progressing farther than any other town. They have a lot to offer. If,” he says, “the kingdom - the entire kingdom - can live united in peace.”

“But that doesn’t help with our debt - “

“How much does the South owe you?” he interrupts.

“Five hundred thousand kroner.”

“And how much surplus do you produce per year?” he addresses the delegate from the South.

“Approximately one hundred thousand kilograms, typically. But this year half of the crop was wiped out – “

“If you have access to this new technology, you can triple that. You can pay off the debt in two years, with interest. In the mean time,” he adds addressing the delegate from the East, “Arendelle Center will cover the debt for the East.”

“What about the border?” asks the representative from the North.

“You will not have access to the land,” Zayn says, and he frowns. “But, you will always have access to the river.”

“And what do we get out of it?” asks the woman leading the East again.

“You get your money back. Plus advances in medical supplies, for your military. The North will have state-of –the-art medical technology, and they’re willing to share with you, but only for the sake of peace.”

 _Peace_. She narrows her eyes and turns to her advisers, and they have a tense conversation. The others do the same.

“And they won’t encroach on our land any further?”

“No.”

He spends the next several hours crafting a treaty addressing all of the specifics, the numbers and the guarantees for each region. In the end, the representatives from the four regions gather in a group to discuss. A few long minutes later, they break.

“Okay.”

He takes a sharp breath.

“This will be satisfactory.”

He exhales a sigh of relief. They signed the treaty. _They signed the treaty_. The kingdom, once again, will be united and at peace.

But somehow, all of that feels like the easy part.

“They signed the treaty?” His grandmother asks anxiously. He nods, and she breaks into a sigh of relief, as if she might cry. “I’m so glad you’ve come back.” She dabs at her eyes.

“But I have something to tell you.” Harry stands up straight beside him. “I’ve come back, but I don’t want to be the Queen.” She frowns. “I want to be the King.”

She takes a step back. “What do you mean? We worked so hard to make this kingdom equal, you want to renounce yourself?”

“That’s not what it’s about. I’m not a Queen. I’m not - a _woman_. I’m a man.”

She steps back.

“I’m still the same person,” he pleads. “It’s just -”

“Grandma,” Harry tries. He turns to Zayn. “Let me talk to her.”

Harry guides her to the other side of the corridor and speaks with her for a few minutes, while Zayn wrings his hands. After all of this, he didn’t think he would want to be King so badly. They’ve already signed the treaty; his work is done.

Only, he has positions to appoint, too. He already asked Jay, if everything worked out, if she would be the head of medicine. And Niall agreed, after his initial shock, that he could lead the initiative to bring the new wave of agricultural technology to the whole kingdom. Other ambassadors need to be chosen, too. And Zayn knows he can do it.

Harry and his grandmother finally turn back around.

She has his father’s eyes and complexion, dark hair turned to gray running straight down her back. Her eyes are unblinking as she steps forward, in front of Harry, to address him. “You should know,” she says, “that as the Queen pro tempore, I can choose my successor. The role generally falls to the closest heir.” His heart falls in his chest. She’s going to choose someone else. “And you should know that it is at the Queen’s discretion to appoint a King. As such,” she says, “I think everyone with the kingdom’s interest at heart would agree that the most qualified candidate for King is you.”

“What?” He stutters, disbelieving.

She places a hand on his shoulder. “Zan - Zayn,” she corrects. “You have been training for this duty for your entire life.” He watches her take a slow breath. “What did you say? You’re the same person, and you’re happier than you’ve been. I can see that. I admit I don’t entirely understand, but that doesn’t mean I can’t support you, when you have already more than proven your worthiness for the job.”

“Thank you.” He knows Liam is waiting outside, and Louis. And Niall, too. “Thank you, Grandmama.” He pulls her into a hug. “I won’t let you down. I promise.”

“One more thing,” she says, eyes twinkling. “Where is this boy of yours?”

 

 

 

“I just talked to Nicholas,” Harry says when he reaches the bottom of the staircase.

Zayn grimaces. “How did it go?”

“Surprisingly well, actually.” Harry scratches the back of his neck. “He, uh, agreed that maybe our relationship was a bit rash. And he understood that things have changed.” He sighs. “I guess you were right after all. I was just so excited. I wanted to meet the _one_ , you know? Like in fairy tales. Love at first sight.”

“Maybe things don’t always work out that neatly,” Zayn chuckles. “But I’m sorry. I should have listened to you better. My whole job is about listening, about compromise, and I failed at that, right from the start. I should have listened to you.” He leans closer. “But what about –”

Harry shrugs, but he can’t fight his smile. “I don’t know. Maybe. If he’ll have me.”

Zayn hesitates before bringing Harry in and ruffing at his curls.

“I think he will, Harry.”

Just then, Louis comes down the corridor toward them. “Just coming by to say goodbye,” he says.

Harry’s smile dissipates into worry. “What? Where are you going?”

“Home,” Louis says simply. “Not so much for me here. I’ve got to tend the shop, and help my mum. And you’re all set, so…” he trails off. “Where _is_ mackerel-for-toothpaste, anyway?” He looks around. “Thought you’d have a tearful reunion. I wanted to meet this guy.”

Zayn elbows Harry in the side. Hard.

“Ow! I mean.”  He looks downward. “I just talked to him, actually. We agreed things had gone a little too – quickly.”

Louis’ eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “You called off the engagement?”

Harry nods, looking everywhere except Louis’ face. “It was mutual. The whole thing is called off, actually.”

“And why is that?”

“Um.” Harry’s eyes remain glued to the ground.  “Well, it wasn’t – it wasn’t really based on anything. We’d only just met, and it feels like forever ago, after everything.” He pauses, cheeks darkening. “And it wouldn’t be fair to him. Because there might be someone else.” He bites his lip, and he finally looks up.

For once, Louis is speechless, mouth slightly agape. Zayn tries to sink into the background as he watches it unfold.

“If you’ll have me,” Harry adds hopefully.

Louis practically lunges forward to kiss him, hard. Zayn knows he probably shouldn’t be here watching, but on the other hand, he’s glad that he’s witnessing this historic occasion. It’s over almost immediately, and then Harry is speechless, red-faced and grinning ear to ear, dimples and all.

“I’m not gonna go proposing to you today, or anything,” Louis warns.

Harry shakes his head, giggling. “I don’t expect you to.”

“Good,” Louis nods, and stands on his tiptoes for another kiss.

“Tomorrow, though?” Harry asks hopefully. They both break out into laughter.

“There you are,” Liam says, appearing from end of the hallway. “Sorry. I got lost, and your Grandma was showing me the gallery. She’s amazing.” Zayn takes the opportunity to walk toward him, excusing himself away from Harry and Louis. The last thing he sees over his shoulder is Harry and Louis snogging hard against the wall.

“So that finally happened,” Liam observes.

Zayn giggles. “It did,” he agrees. He pecks Liam on the cheek. “Come on. Let me show you the rest of the castle.”

**❄❄❄**

Zayn stands up and ducks through the crowd to excuse himself to the washroom. He’s spent the last hour talking to other nobles while eating the Solstice feast, and somehow, everything has been perfectly fine.

It’s funny, because he’s done all of this before. Just, never like this. The ceremony was still boring, dragging on for an hour too long, but at least this time he had both Harry and Louis making faces at him, along with Liam struggling to maintain composure. That helped.

He stops and glances at himself in the mirror. He adjusts his cravat and smooths his suit. The suit is crisp and blue, and it fits him perfectly. Caroline had made it especially for him, and it conforms to his body without emphasizing anything he doesn’t want. “I’m just happy you actually liked what I picked, for once,” she’d quipped with a sideways grin when he’d first seen it. It looks exactly right.

He still feels strange sometimes, looking at himself in the mirror; it still surprises him at times to see himself.

Because that’s who he sees: himself. He turns his head. His facial hair is coming in, the stubble still a bit patchy, but it looks so right. His entire body has changed shape, almost magically, his arms gaining mass and his silhouette straightening. His hair is longer on the top now, slicked back with some fancy new product Caroline procured, and it’s a little messy after all this time, one strand dangling loose down the middle of his forehead.

“You good?” Liam appears in the doorway. “You were nearly out-eating Niall out there.”

“Yeah,” Zayn chuckles. That’s another change the hormones have brought on: a startlingly ravenous appetite. But he’s growing. His voice has deepened, and he can really hear it now.

“You look so good,” Liam says, voice rasping. It’s not the first time he’s said that tonight. He slinks fully into the room to stand beside him and press a kiss to the side of his jaw.

“So do you,” Zayn says. Liam cleans up well; he’s wearing a crisp velvet suit, much like Zayn’s, and a deep purple handkerchief to match Zayn’s cravat.

He looks at back at himself. He’s the King. He’s a man.

“What are you looking at?” Liam asks softly. Zayn has been staring at the mirror for some time.

Zayn shrugs, bashful. “Nothing. I just – I think I look like I’m meant to look.” He turns around. “It’s like, I think I’m finally becoming what I never understood, but I always wanted to be.”

Liam smiles at that. It’s soft, but brilliant; he’s always been able to light up a room with his smile. He squeezes Zayn’s waist. He rests his head against Zayn’s, his lips just above Zayn’s ear, and corrects him softly. “You’re finally becoming who you’ve always been.”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> [tumblr post](http://shipsdrift.tumblr.com/post/161409648838/this-swirling-storm-inside-written-for-the)


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